Q u i d a m

Begging/choosing

The sun shine through the trees, creating mysterious shadows —

seeping into the city streets,

illuminating the whole frames,

the wet dampy roads is getting cleared for the pedestrian—

portholes are shimmering with the golden-rays.

everyone's hustling down for their busy crowds,

Yes, reader— I'm one of them,

getting squeezed in-between.

Same city streets, same people—

and the same panhandlers.

with a plate on their hand,

a shaggy face.

these weird mob is busy,

if in a busting world —

one gets a chance to look,

Will I be surprised?

no — it's like those random leaves,

forgotten in horizon wide.

one, two, three. . . .

maybe too many coins

to be counted.

who knows maybe these pennies

of pity, is someone's bread and butter.

It's evening now, the morning glow has been faded—

with the howling roaring of wind,

the once noisy crowd is silent now,

only the occasional barking of stray dogs echoes,

breaks the biting silence.

once again, I see those panhandlers—

now with a petty smile,

a rocky coat.

mayhaps, their futile attempt of earning is succeed —

or who knows, it's a business of willingly being crippled

those pros and cons of every coin,

can be turned always,

I saunter my ways in the dark,

with those little help of street lamps

a grey glimmering moon,

playing with white clouds.

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