Beggars, wanderers, kindred spirits,
we walk the earth like dust on the wind,
shifting, seeking, never still,
bound to roads, no map can hold.
I pass them by, faces roughened, worn,
with stories written in scars and dirt,
their eyes alive with silent songs,
and I wonder what roads they know.
Some lost their names, left them behind,
discarded like scraps, tossed on the breeze.
I see them glance at doorways locked,
where warmth glows faintly beyond the glass.
Hands are outstretched, hollow palms
that cradle nothing but air and hope.
They’re asking for more than bread or coin,
a human face for a glimpse of kindness.
In alleyways and quiet streets,
their shadows stretch beneath bare lights,
echoing the paths of souls long past,
who walked this earth with feet of dust.
I wonder who they loved and lost,
what laughter touched their distant lives,
what dreams they traded for restless nights,
and why the world turned its back.
Yet we’re kin beneath the night,
in this unending search for a home,
for a place to rest our tired bones,
or hands to clasp when light is low.
It’s easy to turn and look away,
to shield yourself with walls of pride,
to cast them as mere shadows cast
by a world too blind to see the same.
But once I sat on stony ground,
my shoes worn thin from miles walked,
and felt the cold seep through my clothes,
and knew the hunger in my bones.
A wanderer, too, I reached for warmth
and felt a stranger’s gaze meet mine,
their eyes like mirrors of my own,
kindred souls beneath a harsh sky.
How easily we drift, we stray,
from comfort’s edge to hunger’s call,
from bustling homes to empty roads,
tied by threads unseen yet vital.
We gather in silence, shoulder to shoulder,
carrying worlds we dare not share,
haunted by ghosts we’ve tried to bury,
yet somehow finding peace in presence there.
They are my kin, these drifting souls,
their names unknown yet faces clear,
etched in memory like ancient stone,
holding secrets lost to time.
One man’s cup holds all he owns,
a silver piece, a crumbled crust,
yet he speaks to me in the softest tones,
with words more precious than gold or trust.
And a woman’s eyes reflect the stars,
burning bright in the darkened sky,
her voice a melody lost in time,
a song of sorrow, a hymn of hope.
Together, we are woven tight,
by hunger, dreams, and whispered prayers,
by yearning for a place that feels
like home to all who wander near.
We beg not just for food or clothes,
but for a glimpse of human grace,
a kindness shared beneath the stars,
a single touch to break the cold.
In every step, I carry them,
the beggars, wanderers, and kin,
for we are bound by paths unseen,
by roads that twist beneath our skin.
We walk this earth as strangers still,
yet know each other by the heart,
tied by loss and dreams that spill
into the silent, endless dark.
In their eyes, I see myself,
the pieces lost, the places gone,
and though our roads diverge and split,
we share a song that lingers on.
So call me beggar, call me kin,
a wanderer lost in endless night,
for I am they, and they are me,
bound by stars and ancient light.
Beneath the sky, we drift and roam,
seeking kindness, seeking a home.
For poetry and more, visit Mecella.