The African Beggar- Raymond Tong
Sprawled in the dust outside the Syrian store,
a target for small children, dogs and flies,
a heap of verminous rags and matted hair,
he watches us with cunning reptile eyes,
his noiseless, smallpoxed face creased in a snear.
Sometimes he shows his yellow stumps of teeth
and whines for alms, percieving that we bear
the curse of pity; a grotesque mask of death,
with hands like claws about his begging bowl.
But often he is lying all alone
within the shadow of a crumbling wall,
lost in the trackless jungle of his pain,
clutching the pitiless red earth in vain
and whimpering like a striken animal.
Sprawled in the dust outside the Syrian store,
a target for small children, dogs and flies,
a heap of verminous rags and matted hair,
he watches us with cunning reptile eyes,
his noiseless, smallpoxed face creased in a snear.
Sometimes he shows his yellow stumps of teeth
and whines for alms, percieving that we bear
the curse of pity; a grotesque mask of death,
with hands like claws about his begging bowl.
But often he is lying all alone
within the shadow of a crumbling wall,
lost in the trackless jungle of his pain,
clutching the pitiless red earth in vain
and whimpering like a striken animal.
Raymond Tong