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