A Beggar

A Beggar’s Dream
I broke myself over a beggar’s dream;
On ragged clothes and imperfect eyes;
Indifferent to the world, to me and I
And when I found out every single way
To make every single wrong decision
I could have made,
I shamelessly felt ashamed to bring myself
Down to the ground where I can look at that beggar and his imperfect eyes;
Wearing ragged clothes; indifferent to the world and I;
And I broke myself over his dream.

If there was a story about him, I swear
I could have seen it written over his body.
He kept on scratching his ring finger as if
He is missing a part of his soul, maybe he was.
Maybe I was the only one who saw it
I am at his level now, am I not?
Only hugs he receives now is from his own self
During those winter nights when he has to crawl
And become almost meaningless, like a stone.

People keep on staring at me no…us, for being at that level
I feel like screaming at them –“Your eyes are as imperfect as mine.
Perfectly imperfect as mine.
You break yourself onto some dreams too.
Yours or somebody else’s.
And what difference is their between us? You have an iron leaving
Its scent on your clothes this morning, he tasted iron this morning
That was in that policeman’s hands. “

We sat and spoke then, after being equally bruised –
He spoke with much wisdom and an empty stomach.
I took him to a tea shop – the shopkeeper did not allow him in
So we took a couple of chairs outside. I saw him lean
On the chair – like a man he once was, or maybe still is.
I thought the sugar was less in the tea. He closed his eyes
After the first sip – I think he discovered his entire life there, again.

I could see his story – a photograph
Hidden clumsily between his half torn shirt
And his chest. I could imagine that photograph
Clutched in his hands as the only bond
That he had left with himself. For a moment only though
I understood how your entire world can exist inside
A crumpled piece of paper showing a
Blue eyed girl in a yellow skirt hugging her favorite teddy bear.

I saw a dream then, in his eyes.
Imperfect as the world and I.
A dream I need not put in words;
Only a fool would not know it in world.
You heard it when the old men spoke,
Or you whispered it as an evening joke.
That dream you find in the beggars sleep
Or in your eyes when strangers weep.