I saw him sitting on the dusty footpath one day
As he tried to shelter his brown body from the scorching sun ofMay,
He was dressed in dirty rags, torn here and there
As each passer-by went, he would only mournfully stare
His brows were shaggy, his hair was greyish white
With his little bowl held in his hand, he looked a pathetic sight!
I saw with some pity, he had a missing arm and leg
And this little misfortune had led the poor dirty man to beg.
There were few coins in his little begging bowl
Not quite enough to buy him a meal as a whole
He a small board on wheels to move from place to place
Misery, hopelessness was writ on his wrinkled face
Passers-by took little notice of the old beggar man
To help him in his misery there was no willing man!
I watched him for a long time then as I slowly approached him, He looked at me hopefully, his hand no longer limp
I looked at his dusty, outstretched palm remembering wise men’s words,
“If you help a beggar on the road, you only make him worse.”
He stared at me with misty eyes, may be hoping for a coin or two
I looked away, mumbling, “Sorry, I’ve none to give you.”
The old man sighed, looked down and took his hand away
I walked on, without a glance back at him, my way.