The life of begger

 Upon the city’s restless street,

Where echoes of wealth and footsteps meet,

A figure bends with weary eyes,

Beneath the open, endless skies.

A bowl of tin, a hand held still,

Not asking much, just fate’s small will.

The world rushes past in painted hue,

Yet none pause long, not even a few.

The beggar’s life is stitched with thread,

Of nights half-hungry, dreams half-fed.

He sees the world from shadows cast,

A ghost of futures that never last.

Children laugh, their voices soar,

Merchants trade from store to store.

But he remains, a silent plea,

A mirror of lost humanity.

The rain falls hard, it wets his skin,

But hope still lingers deep within.

Perhaps tomorrow, bread, or light,

Perhaps one hand will see his plight.

Each coin that drops rings not of gold,

But of compassion, brave and bold.

For in that sound, a truth appears,

A life is more than hunger or tears.

He dreams of days with steady ground,

A home, a fire, a peace profound.

Yet still he wakes to street’s harsh song,

Where nights are cold, and days are long.

O passerby, look once, be kind,

See the soul the world’s left behind.

For beggar’s life is but a seam,

Between despair and fleeting dream.

Not all are poor by choice or hand,

But by the tides they cannot command.

So share a smile, a coin, some grace,

And light the darkness of this place.

For though his bowl may seem so small,

A single heart can change it all.