I shriek at high pitched tones in discordance,
mumbling words unnaturally formed,

stretching minute chords of my vocal tract,
i was a sight to stare on the bustling street,
irregular hair mass pivoting from my scalp,
thick outgrowths of beard stubs sprawled across face,
a breeding place for minuscule street insects,
feeding in comfort, on unwashed dirt,
adorned in threadbare sac, reaching my ankle,
i felt like an official prince of the poor,
being mentally traumatized since i was born,
brutally whipped at all quarters of life,
utterly bereft of a shoulder to droop upon,
looked upon in contempt by all passing me,
a large slate of wood to perch on all day,
cold stone pillows the armory for sleep,
a meager consumption of hard bread and contaminated
water,
i spent all my life by the fountain side,
with droplets of misery showered in plenty,
an empty begging container my proudest possession,
dangling from my skeleton shoulders,
i have to make an early exit friends,
there seems to be a traffic jam, luxury cars seem to be
the majority,
where in lies the crux of my begging activity


(c) (r) copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.