They were always on my way—

I had no any other ways to walk—

the penniless, philistine children, funny,

“Sir, spare some food for us!” They ask.


Slowly I fumbled my protected pocket,

there were no any pity nor any foods

just a shining golden locket,

and a bundle of notes to make rude-god-good.



Without a second thought,

gave a note, smiling, but different faces under my mask.

Rather than happiness to them, deep melancholy it brought.

“Sir, spare some food for us!” They ask.


I saw no one than dreadful children,

but they were God in children’s masque:

bright and omnipotent, lost and mild.

“Sir, spare some food for us!” They ask.


My heart wailed in sorrow,

thought I was the richest person in the world;

they proved me poor and it were all borrowed,

and already had my sacred soul sold.



Tonight I will denounce the resolute me;

all the wealth that incarcerated the soul-of-cask.

Within your eternity, I seek the pleasure to be.

“Sir, spare the wisdom and forgiveness to me!” I ask.

-Rozesh Gautam