Thursday, November 14, 2013

The Beggar


He sits in a corner of the alley

Dirty and gaunt, with a begging bowl

That doubles up as a saucer.

He has more scars on his thin face

Than there are streets in all of Delhi;


He sits under an old peepal tree

That is like him long past its prime.

The brown city has choked the lungs

Of every tree that once stood here:

Now only the peepal remains;


A few robins have built their home

Among the thin leaves and frail branches;

The cars and buses are oblivious

To the music of the little birds:

Only the beggar hears, and joins in.


He laughs and seems to dare everyone:

“I have my song. Come and take it”.


Diptesh Ghosh


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