without judging

That relentless squat,
every day, rain or shine,
holding a dirty bowl, waiting
with patience, or resignation.
Tattered clothes,
and his bony structure, torn
with karmic beatings.
Wrinkled face, with
a toothless grin,
and a pair of thick, hazy glasses
hiding his gaze
looking for, some glances
of sympathy, perhaps
some gestures of kindness.
A walking stick by his side,
to run away,
again, if need be.

He looks up every time I pass,
no eye contact, no conversation,
not even a moment spent
to drop a coin in his bowl.
Just a connection of two steps,
From the time I turn on his street,
to the time I turn the corner.
But there he sits,
with a certain degree of dignity,
with a fervent defiance
against life’s trials,
in his silent, unyielding begging.