Traveller's tale

I was sad one day—I thought I have failed, 
But after suppressing the very last tear, 
A small voice told me something otherwise—
And so, listening to my little guide, 
I journ'd from one corner to another, 
To find the poorest person in this world.

"You'd see the beggar where the plants did fold."
They said, and showed me a bridge hardly trailed. 
He's placed himself where no one would bother, 
And there he has slept safe and sound sans fear. 
This man was not too poor, I could decide:
He had his peace, though it wasn't concise.

So I left, ne'er crossing the same road twice, 
And came by a town near a petite road. 
A girl told me of a poet dressed in pied. 
"Clothes, marred by tears, for a brother who sailed."
She remarked, then very much like a seer
She prophesied the fate of his brother.

It's hard to feel sorry for another, 
But my heart was not sculptured out of ice. 
His grief was something mine was no where near, 
His clothing confessed what the girl has told—
Yet, from his sorrow-stained cheeks, tears have railed, 
And the source of brine's indeed love's reside.

So, off I went, though my feelings denied. 
He was the poorest—his hope did smother, 
But I too thought that he's had his strength veiled, 
By pain, and saw nothing other than vice. 
He may stand again, if he would be bold
And brave; if he'd see those stood with him near.

I finally found him after a year, 
The poorest man indeed, I must confide. 
He was dressed with the best gems ever sold, 
His coat hemmed in gold and some rare leather, 
But he thought his wealth solely was suffice. 
His heart's freedom—caged—the doors deadly nailed.

This man's senses has long from cruelty shied, 
And aloneness was his only soother. 
I saw him—
Left him—
His eyes—
Far too cold.

Dale Chou
2001-02-04