A BEGGAR BY THE GATE

I returned home, weary from the day, The beggar girl was at the gate again. Her father works the land, yet poverty remains, She asks for five rupees, quiet in her pain. My son, just her age, once asked with care, "Why does she beg when her parents work there?" "Farmers stay poor, though they toil and sow, Those who buy and sell reap riches we don’t know." His words cut deep; I felt as poor as she, A teacher, yet struggling with shame to see. At midnight, Buddha’s renunciation came to mind, While my wife slept, untouched by what I couldn’t find. In silence, I walked the streets so cold, Towers gleamed while farmers lay in huts, untold. Labor’s worth is often left unsung, The rich thrive while the poor remain young. My son’s question lingered in the dawn’s light, The beggar girl’s face still soft, her plea polite. I teach, yet cannot afford the best for him, While others live lavishly, their lives dim. Merchants sell, doctors heal, but all are torn, Labor earns little, while fame is adorned. The farmer’s hand builds with pride, Yet sleeps beneath bridges, with no wealth to hide. The scales of justice tilt and sway, Money buys the worth it displays. Until balance finds its rightful place, The poor will still ask for five rupees with grace.