Poems by

The Beggar

a poem by Swati

I saw a beggar down the lane
Walking with the help of a cane
Begging for a morsel of bread
Raised eyes, lowered head.
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,
Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and again Sunday
Which day of the week, he does not care
Any sort of job, he cannot bear.
He earns no money, lives on water and air,
And the little he gets from people who care.
His life and death are on the street
He bears the cold, and the heat.
Seasons of the earth and of his life
Is that all he gets for his strife?
If strife you call it, that is,
That do-nothing life of his.