The Beggars Meeting. Poem by Zotena Moses

THE BEGGARS MEETING.
God, the creator create with a purpose
Maybe mine is keep the street busy
My song makes your heart think of help
My uncleanness cleans your streets
I am not a curse to my generation
Neither am I seen as a blessing
On my own accord I never create my destiny
My fears did not brought this upon me
Neither did my iniquity
I am not the author of my tragedy
Yet the saint have banned my situation
From among their gatherings
And spread falsehood on my tragedy

My friends! Whose sin am I bearing?
The society pronounced me cursed
My presence stinks among men
Hunger as my creator blessed me with
As I sweep the street with my garments
Am I a being of practice by the creator?
Who is my architect?
Why did nature left me with nothing but sounds
I hear men grow, I hear men fall
In all these, death as made me his worst enemy
Tell me my offense, I will repent
Under the sun, the rain
I welcome men for my survival

Can the deaf hear?
Can the dumb speak?
Yet I hear and I speak.
My heart is heavy but my disabilities hold my tongue
My tragedy is not my making
With me in the womb my mother rejoiced
My father made a hole cut the grass for my cultivation
The dawn of my day is the beginning of my sorrows
Tell me my wrong that I may correct it
The home was my infant raised
The streets is my adult growing
I am a man of hopes and dream
But the street has swallowed my ambitions
My brothers have disdained me
Yet the street is my best friend
The street gives comfort to my soul
The beast of the night feed my body
So I die not because the street rejects me not.
THIS IS THE CRY OF THE BEGGARS OUT THERE.