He was the epitome of sadness that old beggar was. I remember the first time I saw him. It was a beautiful sunny day, and I wondered how it could shine with such sadness in the world. I remember how I heard his dry, chesty cough over all the other sounds in the market place, and I wondered if anyone else heard it too.
He was the epitome of courage that old beggar was. I remember those two boys. They sneaked up on the old man and tried to steal his coin. They were much larger than he, and brutal looking to boot. But he fought them off with anguished cries and won back what was rightfully his.
He was the epitome of strength that old beggar was. He was there everyday, pushing on with all of his strength, ready to battle anything that life put in his path. I had a vision of him with a sword on a battlefield. This man was a soldier, a warrior. He didn’t belong on the street.
He was the epitome of anger that old beggar was. I could sense his frustration as passing people ignored his sorry cries for a simple coin, or perhaps a scrap of food. To be crowded by so many people yet to be so alone. This man had barely any soul left as he slumped against the wall in defeat. Have you seen a warrior cry? I have.
He was the epitome of humiliation that old beggar was. I could only imagine how hard it must have been for him to sit on the street, helpless and vulnerable and beg for the things that would keep him alive for just one more day. As I put a folded not of money into his tin I saw his eyes light up. It was the saddest thing in the world.
I remember the day my grandmother told me about that old beggar. He was a war hero, she had said. But one of his comrades framed him out of jealousy. The government had no choice but to strip him of his possessions and throw him in jail for ten years.
That man didn’t deserve to be on the street. He deserved a comfortable home filled with the glory of his past. But instead he was left to rot on the street. That mouldy old blanket was his living place, his sleeping place and his dying place.