Song of begger

 The world doesn’t belong to beggar,

Nor to hands forever raised in plea.

It belongs to the dreamer, the doer,

To those who dare shape destiny.

A beggar waits on empty streets,

Eyes searching for a coin, a crumb,

But time is merciless, swift, unseen,

And silent winds remind what’s to come.

The earth belongs to the worker’s stride,

The farmer tilling the stubborn land,

The artist painting with fire inside,

The builder with calloused, steady hand.

The world belongs to those who climb,

Who stumble yet rise with stronger will,

Who write their name on the walls of time,

Refusing to bow, refusing to still.

A beggar’s cup may echo hollow,

But courage fills the heart of the brave;

Tomorrow waits for those who follow

The path they carve, not the one they crave.

The world belongs to the seeker’s voice,

To hearts that burn with noble flame,

To souls who walk with tireless choice,

And claim their place without shame.

The world is not a coin to spare,

Nor mercy tossed upon the floor;

It is a garden, vast and fair,

For those who plant, who build, who soar.

So rise, O spirit, cast away chains,

Do not live in shadows of despair;

The world rewards both sweat and pains,

Its throne is earned by those who dare.

The world doesn’t belong to beggar,

But to those who strive, who fight, who sing;

To every soul that shapes its future—

The world is theirs, and theirs the king.