Карл Сэндберг. Старуха

Old Woman 

The owl-car clatters along,  dogged by the echo 
From building and battered paving-stone. 
The headlight scoffs at the mist, 
And fixes its yellow rays in the cold slow rain;
Against a pane I press my forehead 
And drowsily look on the walls and sidewalks. 

The headlight finds the way 
And life is gone from the wet and the welter-
Only an old woman, bloated, disheveled and bleared. 
Far-wandered waif of other days, 
Huddles for sleep in a doorway, 
Homeless.