There is one starveling vagrant
Who is treated as a local beggar
And whose vagrancy
Seems to be hardly dissimilar
From of those who drink like a fish
And fight like a wild beast.
Still, living for long
Just like beneath the millstone,
Time and again he moans,
Liking his wounds
In the wayside dust. Day by day
He is vainly thinking of a nice meal
At a decent place people like to drop in;
What’s more, all winter long
He doesn't know warmth of a coat.
All what he gets is a bundle of rags
And a few pints of mash
Floundered about into his handcart
For the roost bargain. . .
Most of those who give him a buck
Or two do not recognise
The former artist in words—
None of them realises the grade
Of his great insight,
Just calling his utterances
‘The idle talk
To while away the time. . .’
Truly, who would like to taste the sap
Of the barkless tree trunk? Only,
May it be, some rare species of lichen?. .
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compelling read
Sandie