The Beggar By David Rubin

See there! a beggar’s come. He totters,
lifts up pathetic eyes—
the silent light of misery—
and plays the thin string of hope
in the bright sunshine of the yard.
With one round tear he gives
the history of his life.

Look, look at those rags and tatters!
Alas, unpitying time.
Feeble and ailing on the road of life
he trembles, he shivers;
hand unsteady, fearful, the forlorn fellow
holds out his threadbare bag.

Behold the frost of years
fallen on his head;
see the hollows in his face
deepened by streams of tears,
and the deep scars on his chest—
erosion of the passing days.

Panting and shaking he stands
held up by a lifeless stick
and pours out his silent lament,
his heart’s cry bursting out,
the voice tearing your own heart:
“One handful of rice!”
The single claim of a whole lifetime—
“One handful of rice.”

The weeping of the inmost heart
of a man before men,
this begging from his brothers
for a handful of compassion.
In the yard bright with sunshine
what a gloomy sight!
—the sorrowing of the fern
amid the laughter of roses.

Who can he be, whose child?
whose father so unlucky?
What mother’s eyes burned like two lamps
when she took him to her breast?
What was the hope that opened up his eyes
to the eyes of sun and moon?
Why has the lamp of his life
grown dim and faded away?

This same beggar man once stood
before Lord Buddha’s gaze,
the same figure, the same voice
crying out the heart’s anguish.
Through him the sea of great compassion
sent the echoes of its waves;
in such a guise he humbled the pride
of Bali and made it pure.

Fallen from black clouds
to enter into darkness
is he God or is he a beggar?
He speaks—God inside the heart—
and wanders, house to house, yard to yard,
speaks with the voice of pain,
his heart drenched with pity.

Distilling tears that never end,
flowing through all the ages,
opening the eternal lips,
God speaks from the grieving heart.
He comes upon this earth
asking pity from his brothers;
he begs for alms—God himself,
a beggar in my yard.