Old man down by the tracks,
Hobo, tramps, and bums alike.
Living off the land bothering no one,
Camps hidden from society all over the land.
Very few aware they are ever around.

Moving silently through the trees,
Searching for a place to sleep.
Raggy clothes, worn-out shoes on their feet,
Faces weathered by a life of defeat.

They carry their burdens like heavy weights,
Each step a struggle, each breath a sigh.
Their eyes hold stories, untold and unseen,
Of a life filled with hardship and unforeseen.

Society passes them by, without a second glance,
Unaware of the battles they fight each day.
But deep down, they are survivors,
Fighting against a world that has turned them away.

They find solace in the quiet of the night,
Underneath the stars, they find some respite.
Their dreams may be shattered, their hopes may fade,
But still, they continue on, undeterred and unafraid.

So let us not judge them for their weary ways,
For who knows the crosses they have had to bear.
Let us offer them kindness, a smile, a hand,
For in the end, we are all just travelers in this land.

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