Touched by the icy fingers,
of the cold wind that blew.
I began to walk hurriedly,
to escape the snow that fell anew.
Wrapping my imported shawl tighter,
I tried to keep out the cold.
Still, it's icy fingers touched me,
and held me in a vice-like hold.
Hurrying along, I saw a little boy,
slowly walking down the street.
His teeth chattered, his body was blue,
for the cold crept up his bare feet.
"Poor boy," I muttered to myself,
I wish, a blanket the poor thing had.
Shaking my head, I cursed at the poverty,
that caused him to be thus ill-clad.
Reaching the haven of my home,
I almost forgot all about him.
Not really my mistake, was it,
that my memory of him became dim.
He lay on the park bench,
the next day I saw him again.
With anguish, my heart burned,
and I almost felt his pain.
"Poor boy," I muttered to myself,
I wish, a blanket the poor thing had.
Shaking my head, I cursed at the poverty,
that caused him to be thus ill-clad.
A passer-by heard me and said,
"For him, no mortal comfort will do.
He's dead now, and it won't matter,
whether he has one blanket or two."
It was still bitterly cold,
and the wind was strong.
Cold I felt, even in my warm clothes,
for I'd been out fairly long.
I pitied the poor boy,
and for his soul I prayed.
Once again, I blamed poverty,
and wondered why it'd been made. |
