Nikesh Murali

(22/02/1983 / Trivandrum, India)

The Beggar Boy


Here comes the beggar boy,
His face betrays a hapless ploy.
His thin, scarred hands outstretched,
Palms like a bowl of skin upheld.

Burrows run down his tearful eyes,
Sores even the bravest would despise.
A few coins tinkling in his pocket,
Dark and anguished his sockets.

Fleas rose from his eyebrows.
As if from a decaying dog.
A nauseating odour rose,
As if he were a bog.

Pathetic a cry erupts,
So sordid it disrupts.
Blatant recurring requests.
My hand reaches into a basket.

Can a pleasant scent erase,
This living portrait of disgrace.
I hang my head in shame,
Before the beggar boy lame.

Submitted: Monday, October 18, 2004

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  • Charli Pinkney (7/5/2009 10:38:00 AM)

    this is so much better than my The Beggar Boy: (
    I felt yours really captured the essence of beggars (Report) Reply

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