Under a street lamp post a beggar reads an old paper in the dim light.
And he showed me a page while I was passing him.
It's an obituary notice with a photograph.
'Papa! Who is this? ' I asked.
Then he said; ' It's me child can't you see that gray beard?
And I won the prize, please take me to that drawing place if possible
And I promise you to give the half my son.'
All of a sudden a poem blooms in my unrest mind
And I scribbled on his paper.
* Let the tree grows in the hard soil
Until its last blossom
And pour much water
Then it gives you more fragrance.
Another memorable character for your poetic gallery. There are many ways to define a winner. Verse is one of those ways. Take care. Kind regards, Sandra
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nostalgia and grace wrapped in words. You do your old man a great justice, Nimal. Another fine poem. Love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥