Fortune one day may shine upon him
Or perhaps his luck's been and gone
Life hasn't always been this grim
As once, for him it shone.
Reduced to begging for food and drink
Ignored in large by society
Somewhat resembling the missing link
Consumed by his own sobriety
Vagabond, vagrant, peasant, Tramp
Call him what you will
Sleeping rough in the cold and the damp
Surviving the winter chill
Scavenger, scab or survivor
Call him what you will
His privilege and pride
Have all but died
There's little left to kill
Beyond all doubt his hope is done
His money spent on booze,
He stumbled at the starting gun
And now he's set to lose
Who can he blame
for his untimely demise?
That society cast to one side
We show little shame or any reprise
And little care for his pride
We jump to conclusion
He's a waster and spent
He's worthless in our eyes
He prays for something heaven sent
But no one hears his cries.
And then it's to late
He's all but broken
Motionlessly he lies
Never again to be woken
Peacefully he dies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem