Supple hands, frail fingers,
Stretched out, seeking alms
Unkempt hair, torn attire,
A penny or two in his tiny palms.

Wry smiles, eager looks,
He stood there on the street.
Young, old, women, men
All that passed, he did greet.

Glaring looks, cursing tongues;
A few good souls too;
Through storms and the calm,
Braving all, beneath the sky blue.

Hungry days, empty weeks,
And months of silent pain;
It all changed one fine day,
He was never the same again.

A purse with thousands fell,
From a man who hurried by,
He hastily hid the purse, and then
Hit by conscience, asked himself why.

Confused thoughts, wavering decisions,
He finally gave it back.
The man smiled and took him home,
Since then, nothing did he lack.

Years later, I stand there again,
How would it have been, I wonder;
But for a miracle, small and yet big,
I might still be cussed under.

Like a shadow of myself, a boy stood,
Watching him, I heaved a sigh;
I dropped a purse of thousands,
As I hurriedly passed him by.