The Beggar And Me. Poem by Elliot Moore Ahiator
The Beggar And Me.
His hands, outstretched and lean,
with much effort he lifts his voice
and the stench, o! Overwhelming.
Yet I looked at him, this beggar,
Homeless and degenerate.
I stare long enough to take in his situation,
Then, I turn away.
Yes! I did.
“He doesn’t exist,
He actually isn’t there.”
I owe him no obligation so I turn
And I tell myself that never happened.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/19/2024 4:18:19 AM # 1.0.0.1119
