The Beggar of Wu Ma Jie

He’s laid his head on a Chinese street

There’s nothing of dignity here,

He’s bared his soul in a plastic bowl

For the rest of the world to jeer,

His clothes are ragged, his body is torn

With a million kinds of sin,

The sort that everyone walking past

Holds close; hides under the skin.

 

He lies in dirt on a filthy rag

To keep the cold from his bones,

And never utters a word to beg,

Though often he cries, or groans,

His face is one with the living earth

As he rests his head on the ground,

He’s soaked by the chilling winter rains

And washed by the summer storms.

 

His bowl holds only a few yuan

That those with a humble heart

Might drop in shame, then hurry away

From a life that’s fallen apart;

There’s no compassion in passing eyes

Just the hint of a prideful sneer,

That damns us all to the final fall

As we taste of his deep despair.

 

Our Lord, or Buddha, in heat or cold

You lie in his wretched form,

To feel the toll of a human soul

Who’s lost to his wife and home;

A man walks tall in the morning sun

Is crippled by those held dear,

Then falls to earth, is there no repair

For the beggar of Wu Ma Jie?

  

David Lewis Paget

Author's Note

Wu Ma Jie - (pron. Oo-mar-jeer)

Reviews

[raining]

Our weakness is shown to us by those who are weakest.

What we do with what they teach us is another thing.... we can either be enlightened or we can ignor and hide....if we do nothing to help ...this causes us to lose what is best in our true heart. It always sounds simple, and obvious to those who cannot believe this, but profound to those who do.

That is what I saw, and paraphrase, about this poem. You are a very good poet, unique...