By -CallMeLiam-
From ("The Blind Man and The Beggar")
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AT dawn before the world awakes,
He gets up from his slumber;
Yawning, his makeshift den
He swiftly takes asunder.
As his belongings he carries,
Against the wall, he leans;
Tired and weary,
Before the day begins.
The drunkard is no stranger,
The early bird, he greets.
Silently, he shuffles by,
As the bluebird tweets.
Clothed in rags of guilt and shame,
Down the street he walks.
He's just another soul, lonesome
With nothing to his name.
A great man he once was,
Now reduced to dust.
And such calamity what can cause,
But pride, greed and lust?
Down the street, right by the square,
Upon his mat, he lays;
For the kind hearted, the compassionate,
For a miracle, he waits.
The non-relenting rush of footfalls,
Like music to his ears.
From dawn to dusk, his precious song,
"Alms for the poor", he sings.
A blind man passes this poor old chap,
Keeping to himself;
Avoiding any mishaps,
Like books upon a shelf.
He watches till he disappears,
Obscured from his view.
And wonders, if to help this man,
There was anything he could do.
A sad story of his life he will tell,
If, to listen you would care;
But most only pay no mind
To the beggar by the square.
Dedicated to -CallMeLiam-
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