A poor old beggar I am.

Sitting daily at the gate into the city

With the ligature of my bones covered in rags and pity

And my hands stretched out as I beg for alms.

For you may be great and noble.

Dwelling daily among the king’s many.

And your glooming mortal covered in linen of gold and envy.

While your hands are raised against the small and feeble.

You make jest and scorn me.

While you ride along with the king’s fold.

For the day may last and the morrow may not behold.

But surely what would be,would be.

I wrestle with the dogs for the crumbs.

That falls from your table while you dine.

With lords, you merry with jars filled of wine.

While your dogs lick of my wounds and worms.

For today’s merry is thine.

And the Morrow’s many may be mine.

Not the stars,the sun,nor the moon

Can stop my fortune and destiny from descending

Even when the day seems old and never ending.

I surely know that my morrow will come soon.

Written by: Jeremiah Iniobong.



Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here