#154
A man seeking alms,
his features were common
for men of sweat
and sun rays.
Undeniably,
as he was,
a man in need—
a help
was all he wanted.
Then came the voices,
so familiar,
too unforeign,
bitter,
unsweet,
mocking.
“Why would you ask for help
when you have a body
still almost at its prime?”
“You should work.
Your body is still able.”
“You're only going to use it
for your vice.”
These words,
once complaints,
became mockery.
Even still,
only he—
the man seeking alms—
knows the truth.
Then another came.
An elderly woman,
alms she sought,
her assertions
uncourteous,
rude!
A better word to paint her.
The voices were different,
but were just the same.
“No!
I don't have any.”
As the cling and clang of coins
jiggled in their pockets.
“Don't bother me!”
“No!”
As assertive as the elderly woman was,
she pressed on.
Either knowing
that goodness still lived,
or knowing
that the best business there is
is actually an easy trade.
Whatever it was,
only she would know.
Then came another—
a child.
Young,
ignorant,
a fool,
and, as he so claimed,
the true king of the world.
He tapped a man's shoulder,
without a word,
only simple gestures:
a palm open,
pointing up,
and another hand
rubbing his belly.
No voice needed.
All of these, though,
were opposite
to the light in his eyes.
Fiery.
Dead.
A man refused the child.
The child mocked the denier.
A woman refused.
The child gave her
his middle finger.
Then voices resounded—
the same tone,
the same pitch.
“You're not going to find food, anyway.”
“You're going to use it
for your vice.”
A young child?
Already has a vice?
Even still—
with the child's magic finger
halfway through,
he waved it
proudly.
And life goes on.
With or without
alms given.
Hardly,
the world cares anyway.
But—
what truly does
the word mean?
A horse once called asking
the bravest thing he knew—
that asking for help
is refusing to surrender.
Is it though?