Joseph, weary,
Found the Inn,
But the landlord
Wouldn't let them in;
At the stairs,
He barred the door
Though Mary screamed
In labor sore;
He told them both
To sleep below;
Beneath the Inn
They could go;
With the animals
He laughed in jest;
Lest her cries
Disturb his guests;
The landlord who
Rejected Christ
Without so much
As thinking twice,
Thought of Mary
As a chore:
Old Joseph and
His pregnant whore;
And so was born
The King of Men
Amid the cows
And clucking hens;
Amid the lambs
And bleating sheep;
Amid the horses
Stomping feet;
Christ lay birthed
On dirty straw
Too human for
The upper floor;
Thus right from birth
Born in a manger
Unfairness was
To him no stranger;
Joseph cut his silver cord
As drunken men
Danced on the boards.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
His story stylishly done, interests me especially as the weekend before last I had been to a church with its walls adorned with the paintings on the life of Jesus. (My poem Christo Mandir)