The beggar kicks the can across the street,
His face so worn, looking beat,
His hair, a scraggly mess of tumbleweed,
His mouth, yearning for a chance to feed,
The box he scorns remains his home,
And with the wind it likes to roam,
A coin or two to ease the mind,
Wishing for an extravagant find,
He had it all,
A palace made of marble halls,
Courtyards, fountains streaming pearls,
Diamonds, riches, painted murals,
There were choices laid upon a golden tray,
To fly, to swim, to live as he may,
An endless ring of pouring light,
A life so perfect, there was no fight,
A silent wind carries the memories away,
And he sits against the rugged wall
by the ground where he lays,
A hopeless being that mothers hurry past,
Their children staring, talking fast,
A piece of the painting that covers the streets,
Where danger awakes and pierces his feet,
No marble to sit on or velvet to touch,
Struggling to simply hold a crutch,
The wound where fate had stabbed was deep
Healing slower than his weep,
Sealed with dirt and silent tears,
Infecting like a growing fear,
But as a tadpole finds its legs,
The beggar saw the treasure made,
A smile from a boy so young,
Left him speechless, without a tongue,
The happiness that he’d never had,
A hope that could finally hide the bad,
As he lays beneath the twinkling stars,
And hears the rolling of the cars,
He hears the crickets sing to him
“Let your light no longer be dim.”