The Mendicant

He looks at me with his silent eyes,
Asks me for some money so that he could live his day,
But how can I give him when I have so less,
Wouldn’t I spend it on myself?
No, there are others who would feed him,
And I am sure he lived yesterday without me,
And so he will live today as well.
But I hope everyone doesn’t think so,
Because if tomorrow I don’t see him,
Wouldn’t I blame myself for it?
No, the others are equally to blame.
He looks at me with his silent eyes,
A child in his hand, whose eyes remain closed,
I have never seen it cry, is it dead already?
Does he carry that to gain sympathies?
Why doesn’t the baby cry?
All babies cry, why doesn’t this,
Did the crying disturb him so much,
That he took its life, yet refused to part with it?
Only yesterday I saw someone giving him some clothes,
Yet even today he wears those ragged,
Did he throw them away, no he wouldn’t,
Who might have taken them from him?
Who does he work for, what does he do,
A mendicant he dresses, but who is he?
Is he one of those who works undercover,
Looking for the right person to kill,
Or is he a puppet whose strings are taut,
Being pulled all the while by someone else?
He looks at me with his silent eyes,
And hopes I would know what he means.

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