Another Intellectual Being

The Mongrel

A shaggy crop of hair on his head
Tongue parched, Thirsty for a drop of water
And yet in misery he smiles
His smiles more black than whiter

Torn, dirty and rags he wore
Nails blackened by rage
Amputated, one leg of his
Nearly half that of early age

Pale, Stale, untouchable skin
Much like the tar on the street
With every beat, a dream shattered
Sights most men want to meet

Men of old, of strength and steed
Men of will and steadfast dreams
Of power, might, control and hate
And all that so seems

Of many tales of men and mice
His always left unknown
A burden he bears at too young an age
His tale still not known

A year of drudgery he bore
Trying to these rags shed
Trafficking, smuggling and stealing
For stale old bread

Then again in broad daylight
His silent dreams were raped
Mother dead, Sister sold
For mouldy old bread

Dreamy, dogged and silent eyes
Observed all but a few unnamed
His dream, a patchwork of sorts
A hungry beggar, he got named.


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