I...was you

Are you the one sitting On the worn wooden bench In the public park With the remains of a cold loaf of bread in your hand And with the other you hold a dream Forgotten by the sad days, clinging To your palm that was cracked by cement And pieces of red brick! Are you the one who whispers to the wind Something intimate like a red night In a cold winter? Are you the one who flies land On his face When he lies down like a dead man On the wet grass Taking off his weary steps At the door of night! Forgive me, sir Perhaps I am somewhat coarse And unmannerly But I feel very frustrated And very regretful That I...was you.