In the rusty cathedral,
amidst a town fogged in dust and dirt,
under a damp ceiling, within broken walls,
lay he- the bearded beggar.

Waking up to glimpse of shine,
day anew, yet so much alike,
incessant clinging and clattering,
in the ears and heart they strike.

Bearded beggar’s bowl, they say,
people walking by, some standing,
buzzing and rattling all down the road,
his lullaby shares his heart’s serenade.

The rusty bowl with edges creep,
much alike his decayed hands,
in the little shine that was left,
stared at himself, the bearded beggar.

Today in a festive mood,
the town is filled with colours, noise and fun.
“A great day ahead”, he mused,
fondling the bowl, his life and living.

Two coins, from last day’s beg,
could earn him some sympathy.
He got ready, dirtied himself,
but wiped the dirt off the bowl.

Lullaby played, in bowl and heart,
with the rhythm of metal on metal.
“What would I do without you?”, he thought,
jingling tunes, soothing his ears.

He loved the bowl, they shared a bond,
bond not of coins filled,
but the fate they had to choose,
of getting rusted inside out.

It has become his livelihood,
money he collected to buy food,
feeding the bowl with his own good,
as and when, wished as he would.

Yet in the rushing town, dressed in hues of fun,
in a moment’s fate, a car passed by,
in a moment’s thrash, the beggar was hit,
the scarlet bowl went rolling down.

It longed for its master, its breather,
but all it dripped, his red blood.
Whom shall it sing its lullabies now?
Perhaps another, another bearded beggar!



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