The Poorest Poem by Dilrukshi Bethmage

Wheels spinning everywhere
Feet walking here and there
Breeze of a dusty air,
Among was a man of grey hair.

On the seat of a black pavement,
Sat the man with his sole empty hand.
And all the hands with escapement,
Found no time to see this figure on sand.

Raining was so usual for him,
Sun-rays always made him dim.
Was a little patched umbrella that gave him shade,
Sobs and tears were of what his home made.

Wearing a torn sarong covering the only leg,
The man was looking up at the faces to beg.
Wiping the sweat on his pale body with a rag,
By and by he looked into something in his bag.

Difficult to move his heavy, soared body,
The man could not find even a bit of a rotti.
And not that pleased with dusty breath,
Starving the whole day; nearly to see the death.

Nobody cared and nobody saw
The pain and sorrow the man bore.
Sang his sadness, begged he more
Nobody heard, but disgusted his sore.

It was fate that he was disabled,
Rare to find a note from an abled.
What he hoped was not so enormous,
Just a little care and a heart of kindness!