The Beggar

Another bright day crawls in,
rays peeping through the milky window pane,
Touching the head of the lonely old man
to wake him up, telling him to fetch his can.
"It's a new day, here am I again,
neglect your torpescence,
to move towards diligence."
Diligence, for what?
The old man thought,
fetching the steel tattered can,
suffering the glowing summer's tan,
his treasure, his gold..
his only hope to fill his wife's stomach old.
And off he goes, naked feet
adorned with filth, clothes rugged,
Face dismayed, yet 'hope' to earn,
to fill up the urn,
Their treasure, their means to survival..
Yet the old man is content-
He doesn't have any rival,
who would snatch from him his daily stale bread,
since they might consider it an offering to the dead.
And out he goes, his minute eyes glittering,
difficult to make out the reason-
whether hope to earn early this season,
or are they the tears he tactfully is hiding?
...Yet no pain, neither disdain,
grief nor complain,
he walks again across the street,
begging, asking for a penny or other's left-out treat,
no care for blisters on his naked feet
that was what he used to do, to make his ends meet.
Sometimes, the altruistic might give a penny or two,
while others would look in disdain, and would shoo
the poor man, yet he smiles,
"I am poor, have to face hostiles"
And again he returns to his wife,
with a worn-out can,
"I have earned it today, hope more I can"