The Old Man with His Plate
-by Suresh Iyer
–Reading Time – 1 min Approx
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.
-by Suresh Iyer
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