Татьяна Дятлик - Рождество под стеной
текст песни

They leave bright shops and boutiques. There are many packages with gifts in your hands. They make up long lines in supermarkets. After all, the New Year has already passed, and tomorrow the long -awaited Christmas. They are in a hurry. There are so many more things. At the sight of shop windows, the eyes scatter. Such a variety. You can buy so much. If only there was enough time and money. They are not worried about a strong wind, fiercely rushing into the face. They are not interfered with harsh frost and heavy snowfall. They are warmly dressed and go in a taxi. They go home, where friends are waiting for them. There is such a festive mood in my heart. So easy, joyful. Who are they? This is us. Those who are called people.
On the same street, not far from the metro. Under the concrete wall of a high -rise building is a group of people. The snow is so thick that you will not immediately notice them. These are the so -called scum of society. Only the views of contempt, sometimes pity, fixed on them. But not understanding, not love, not support. They are not afraid to rummage in garbage. They do not disdain to eat rotten, stale foods. They are silent. They have nothing to talk about. Yes, homeless people. Those who are called people have no time to think about them. Job. A family. Children. Banal excuses. Why take care of them, if you can just pass by, looking away in the other direction?
Yes, this strange group under the wall was made up of homeless people. Four men and woman. Or maybe a girl ... it's hard to determine. So her face was mutilated by frost, visible beatings, and alcohol. Her face. It has long lost the human face. The forehead was almost absent, being crossed by large wrinkles. The eye, in fact, was not visible. The reason for this was blue bags and pinkish swelling. The cheeks, unnaturally red and sagging, pointed out a hidden disease and malnutrition. In wide mouth, not all teeth. The cracked lips looked especially compassionate, on which blood appeared again and again. The picture was complemented by confused long, rare hair. She sat on wet cardboard and howled softly, hugging her knees with weathered hands, barely swayed. The clothes were old tights and a roughly connected sweater dressed on a naked body. The thorny wind permeated all its exhausted creature. Crying was interrupted by a bronchitis cough. No one knew what her grief was. Maybe she was robbed, or her child died, or maybe something hurts a lot. But it was something bad. Something is exorbitantly heavy. Such that there were not even tears. And lamentations. And physically it would not have been enough for a hysteria. Just a moan, a quiet howl. But from this sound to those who are called people became terribly. Other homeless people made unsuccessful attempts to console her. One man, in a jacket in a long -lost jacket, tried to pour her vodka. But to warm and bring this woman to her senses could not. On Christmas morning, she was no longer under the wall ...
Of course, we can explain the actions of the homeless. They could not offer anything. And to sacrifice with their clothes meant to die. This is the law of the street. But how to find a reasonable explanation for the action of others, those who are called people? They are full, dressed and healthy. They have money. But they accelerate the step, passing by and turning away. And then they try to forget, erase from the memory what they saw.
And the next day they get up early in a warm house to find expensive gifts under the Christmas tree, eat a festive breakfast. They will never know that on the eve of Christmas, at night, under a cold concrete wall of a high -rise building, an unknown woman died ... a man ... a woman who was not as blessed as they ... Who are we, those who are called people?!