The Song Of The Beggar

 I am always going from door to door,
whether in rain or heat,
and sometimes I will lay my right ear in
the palm of my right hand.

And as I speak my voice seems strange as if
it were alien to me,

for I'm not certain whose voice is crying:
mine or someone else's.

I cry for a pittance to sustain me.

The poets cry for more.


In the end I conceal my entire face
and cover both my eyes;
there it lies in my hands with all its weight
and looks as if at rest,
so no one may think I had no place where-
upon to lay my head.

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