Sparrows (a poem by my 18-year-old self with meager understanding of poetry, brevity, or life)

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