Walking down the street few men; looking from the balcony people–mostly old and women of the house, so hide quick behind that bough of the mango tree. You’re good looking; a deep look can reveal that. But, if those on road see you they will drive you away with hush or will hurl stone at you, and those at the balcony will curse you. I know you’re furry little ball who sleeps on the old house’s roof in the dark shades of the tree, and occasionally on the roof of the ambassador whose owner has forgotten as it seems and left it there to rot and rust, or on the rusted tin roof of the old garage–camouflaging with the dark rust blackish-brown color. What are you looking at right now? Are you looking for someone to play with or some new place to sleep or just roaming aimlessly from parapet to parapet? Are you looking for something to eat? I can pet you and feed you if you come to me. In the night when the traffic dies down, in the normal time, you play with the dogs. At first no one can see you because of your color; they laugh on the dogs being jumping and barking at the darkness. Then when the lights of a passing zipped car falls on you your eyes shine green. And then you can be seen. No one likes you, you’re the omen. The carrier of the ill-fate. Looking at you can bring the fate down with an axe; I’m leaving the old saying and well-known fact, when a cat color black cross the street it brings bad luck, aside. (To me) you’re the most beautiful and jolly cat that can be ever found around. You’re the comedy that I need to laugh after a hard day of working–a bliss for the exhausted soul. Looking at you on the gloomy day I feel the sense of this bliss. Where did you gone now?