My Old Friend, The Guide

(A poem that was writen a long time back in 1996 by a 12 year old kid)

I used to see the poor man,

Begging everyday in the street.

Whenever I went out for a walk,

We used to talk everytime we did meet.

We spoke of this land of spirituality,

We spoke of night and the stars that shine.

We spoke of the wheat stalks in the field,

Standing in an innumerous line.

We also spoke about the long rivers,

We spoke about the mountain chain.

He wanted to go there and see their beauty,

But as he was a poor man, it was all in vain.

The only thing he had was a cap,

Which he used to wear in the hills as a guide.

Although he had come back from there,

He still didn't move his old cap aside.

Then came one dreadful winter night,

When I was away from my house.

When I returned I found him lying,

Covered in snow in the streets like a mouse.

I took him home and gave him food to eat,

But it was all a way too late.

My old friend had died of cold,

Screaming and shouting in the cold for a little heat.

But still in my memory he prevails,

I erected his tomb in his country of Wales.

I still remember him now and then,

To forget such a goid man would really be a shame.