The sun wasn’t a fireball still,
A lighter tone, it showed above the hill.
The night has shed its black cloak,
To let in the day for trees to soak.
Crows and wood pigeons have made the first noise,
Yet a fellow is unmindful of his poise.
So, a new day is born,
The beggar is oblivious of the morn,
He slumbers still, his outlook unmade,
At noon he’ll be up looking for shade.
The haggard never lived a halcyon day,
His serenity of mind, intemperate hunger took away.
A derelict ungulate licks his face,
The derelict beggar scrambles out of his phase.
He arches his back and sits up dazed,
His everyday life had begun chequered and mazed.
He mutters some expletive curses at the goat,
Rummaging in his pockets for yesterdays oats.
Every passerby to him seems zany,
They swagger along every minute so they count to many.
His measly meal was over; empty hands for tomorrow,
The day after brought less of grain and more of sorrow.
Twilight ushered in at nobody’s call,
He counted his receiving; the day was to fall,
A stroll to the beggars stall near the temple,
Then back to his slot for the next day’s jumble.
He knew no friend, fiend or foe,
Cared not for the almighty to swipe his woe.
The night was insinuated into the sky,
In his insouciant sleep he would happily die
