He’s laid his head on a Chinese street
There’s nothing of dignity here,
He’s bared his soul in a plastic bowl
For the rest of the world to jeer,
His clothes are ragged, his body is torn
With a million kinds of sin,
The sort that everyone walking past
Holds close; hides under the skin.
He lies in dirt on a filthy rag
To keep the cold from his bones,
And never utters a word to beg,
Though often he cries, or groans,
His face is one with the living earth
As he rests his head on the ground,
He’s soaked by the chilling winter rains
And washed by the summer storms.
His bowl holds only a few yuan
That those with a humble heart
Might dropp in shame, then hurry away
From a life that’s fallen apart;
There’s no compassion in passing eyes
Just the hint of a prideful sneer,
That damns us all to the final fall
As we taste of his deep despair.
Our Lord, or Buddha, in heat or cold
You lie in his wretched form,
To feel the toll of a human soul
Who’s lost to his wife and home;
A man walks tall in the morning sun
Is crippled by those held dear,
Then falls to earth, is there no repair
For the beggar of Wu Ma Jie?
13 December 2006
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.