Who is he, sitting alone and lost in thought,
Wandering all around, with no one in sight,
No shelter, no food, yet he stands tall,
Wearing clothes I've never seen before.

Every afternoon, I see him searching for food,
I wonder, was he born into this life,
Or was he made to be this way?
But surely, he must have been well before.

Many passed him by without notice,
But when I stopped to look at him,
It might have made him see me as a stranger,
But who are the real strangers here?
Mad, they call him, but who are the truly mad ones?