The Sweeper

Every morning the light comes late
And I am not even in bed.
My hands polluted with the city's dirt
Makes me proud but hurts.

Many do not care, few stop to help.
But everybody waits and walks away.
Corner by corner the light does not wait,
She is just in front of me and then goes away.

Dark again I find my way,
The city will wait for another day.
Through my tired body my mind rest,
Makes me proud but hurts.