A piece of waste
Whose existence in junkyard
A class among the wastes
Marking each of them with a value
Sometime there’s something beautiful
Hiding in the crowd, in an isolation
The purpose,
Not to be ranked
Rather remain aberrant
No waste better than any,
But to live
Just to decay
Or to be crushed one day
The worry is for the rare,
Veiled by the fear,
Of being lost
Or being one of them.
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