The Following was written shortly after my departure from the city of Targossas, and has been sitting unread for many years now. I figured it was about time that I published it.

-----------------------------------------------------------

I came 'cross an old beggar near the bay,
And to him I turned and did say,
"Greetings, sir, and in what way,
May I be able to help you today?"

He turned to me and spat at my feet,
Said, "Ne'er an honest man did I meet,
That would help me off the street,
Save for a price or an unusual feat."

I was shocked and I said to the man,
"Sir, I promise I'll do what I can."
Down his forehead, a bead of sweat ran,
And with his blanket, himself he did fan.

"I am naught but sickly and old.
Brought low and near-dead by a cold.
Not long to live, so I am told,
By a doctor quite young and bold.

Now leave me be in peace to die,
As Gods watch from their thrones on high,
Doing naught to help us by."
And with that, the man did cry.

I took pity on this poor man,
Dying by the garbage cans,
And so to the church I ran,
With him by the second growing more wan.

I asked the priestess, "What can I do,
To make this man's last day or two,
As comfortable as for me and you?"
She told me, "This is what you must do."

And then she sent me on my way,
And in err from the path I did stray,
As I took the long path round the bay,
I saw it was his dying day.

I rushed to him, not knowing what,
A sinking feeling in my gut,
From his mouth his tongue did jut,
He lay there in that little rut.

I felt so sad, to see him go,
I realized that which I did not know,
To see such a man laid down low,
Left by society to feed the crows.

And I took pity on these fools,
Of the city they were but tools,
Of the churches and the schools,
Led around like little mules.

Not caring 'bout the world about,
I say, it made me want to shout,
That in a world of people so devout,
There was no care, I had no doubt.

So in this place, this holy land,
Full of people, tall and grand.
None are there to take a stand,
And beggars are left to die in the sand.

With head hung low, I leave this place,
Seeing truth in every face,
Knowing those in silk and lace,
Will never see the true side of grace.

I pity them, these holy folk,
With rituals complex and fittings baroque,
While they laugh and they joke,
And mutually their egos stroke,

They'll never get why I was there,
They'll never get why I truly care,
They look to Gods high in the air,
Yet let beggars die in the central square.

And so I leave this holy town,
Features lined with a dark frown,
For I see these people drown,
In the name of a religion renowned.

And I feel sad for their fate,
As I pass through their gate,
These people who could have been great,
Filled with such fury and hate.

I pity them, their blood-soaked tears,
Shall haunt my nightmares through the years,
And though I take their jests and jeers,
To me it has become quite clear.

They are the ones who are in pain,
Who do naught but for personal gain,
Who are haunted by those they have slain,
Cleaving each of their hearts in twain.

And so I bid them a final farewell,
And leave them to rot in their most holy of hells,
But on the thought of them my mind will dwell,
For for righteousness, their souls they did sell.


Penned by my hand on the 12th of Lupar, in the year 671 AF.