They call him love

Wrapped in a stinking blotted piece of rag, he lies there on his back, emaciated, pale , excruciated and counting the last few movements of his wind pipe as it struggles for the air to pass in and fill his lungs to keep him lie there as a leftover piece of meat, to be destroyed and devored by hawks and crows.
the dried stream of tears coming out of his dried eyes, stays there as a mark of stigma he has gone through his entire cursed life , for being a creature who has a heart which pounds, which pumps blood and which can feel good for someone.
He has seen for ages, deluge of humans moving over here and there, developing from crabs to cranes , stones to five star hotels, pitches to pizzas, he has seen them all being strangers and seen them working together as brothers , then he saw them slaughtering each other. He tried his best to reach out to them when they all were filled with rage, hatred and dislikes,but all of them found his ways specious and treated him as a betrayer.
He was numb, he could not find a home, nobody willing to give him shelter, he is all alone.
Those were the days he became hemophobic, the stench of blood made his respiratory system weak. his lungs started striving to avoid the suffocations. But they never cared for him. They had to rise, they had to grow. He lied there beside the traffic signal, looking at them, having mercy on them , praying for them, but he was so helpless. The sounds of bombs made him deaf, the stampede of people crushed him.
the innocent faces of the babies who became motherless wanted to kiss his face but they did not let them do it.

He is still lying there, he cant listen to all the Naras and slogan, he cant understand all these political statements, I know he will bleed his lungs out very soon and take his last breathe.
We will put a statue of him and put the garlands and will call him "Mr. Love"