Sparrows
By: (18-year-old) Anna Urquhart
I
walk down the Spanish paseo,
look among dazzling fountains
and
budding flowers,
hear numerous conversations,
yet understand few.
I
see garnished faces.
I
hear laughter braided with smiles.
I
see hands shake and embrace.
The
smooth skin of the polished walk
forever
reaches before me.
I
wander among the flowery words
and
the decorated apparel.
An
injured song shuffles off the lips
of
a tired, bantam beggar
sitting
in the shadows of an olive tree.
His
hands are brown and withered.
His
hair swallowed by infinite grime.
His
raggedy garb blowing
like
old men’s bleached beards.
His
teeth of yellow corn
flecked
with poppy seeds.
His
voice as sickening as cats’ squalor.
I
am instantly repulsed
and
try to slink by.
I
stop when I hear this thick, grated voice
singing
a mutated hymn of grace.
I
pause only feet away
and
look at him.
Amid
the grime and scum of his costume
there
comes a glow.
His
eyes, though dimmed by hardship
shine
with a hope those around,
who
have all that could be desired,
do
not possess.
His
aria dances among the flowers
along
with the diligent bees.
It
floats over the fountains
and
zigzags with the dragonflies.
It
is not beautiful but is undefiled.
It
is not the voice of an artist
but
of a man
who
knows where contentment lies,
whose
spirit will not be vanquished,
who
patiently, willingly endures.
I
look away,
look
down at my spotless garments
and
my reverently folded hands.
I
have known beauty and wealth,
my
mind has become mundane.
The
sound of the melody drifts away,
rising
until the last notes are safely
on
their way to heaven.
I
see the pauper stand and sway
as
if dancing to a celestial strain.
He
hobbles down the concourse
Heads
in my direction.
I
am frozen.
As
he rambled by he hoists his eyes to mine,
imparts
a smile, and continues on.
I
want to stop his leaving
but
reverie arrests my action.
I
watch the warped shoulders
droop
and shift as if the weight of his clothes
might
drag him to the ground,
but
he continues til I can no longer see him.
I
walk to where he
only
moments before had been sitting.
I sit
by the olive tree
as
though by sitting where he had
I
might secure some of the serenity
beheld
in him.
A
breeze wafts by, bringing with it
the
sickening stench of my beggar man.
I
watch two sparrows chase and flit
after
miniature rays of sunlight
as
if they know that heaven
has
fixed their plight.
I
have many times returned
to
the place of reverie
never
to find my pauper
sitting
by that tree.
I
know not where that beggar is today
with
his unending spirit of assurance.
The
light in my eyes has dimmed,
and
my passion blurred.
My
hymn of grace an unrelenting
descant
of complaint.
I
yearn to see the eyes of that man.
Eyes
to give me assurance,
hope.
I
crave the sound of his
grating,
grace-themed melody
to
remind me that
security
and contentment
come
only with acceptance.
In
that accepting do we finally find peace.
The
peace of a sparrow pursuing sun beams.
Happy National Poetry Month!
Top image from: pinterest/Marian Durkin
