The Old Man With His Plate

The beggar in my street The subject of my hate An eyesore I felt he was The old man with his plate Sunshine or rains, chill or heat Never had I pity for his fate Yet he had that toothy grin The old man with his plate Mosquitoes crowned his head Flies and insects were his mates He shared his food with the dogs The old man with his plate He blessed one and all Many pitied his state Wrinkles ran all over his face The old man with his plate The crowd gathered one day Around the subject of my hate The old man was no more Remained only the empty plate He was a beggar indeed But never stole other's plate Felt I missed him Put a coin in his empty plate Life moves like a river Stops and starts at every gate Life moves on, so did The old man with his plate ... Suresh M Iyer