The pity of the rich man and the poor man
They passed on the same sunlit street — rich and poor, two shadows brushing.
The rich man glanced at the other and felt pity like a coin dropped in a gutter:
one bundle for all his world, hair tangled with the wind, no roof to claim as kingdom,
no hearth to call family, hands sifted through yesterday’s offerings,
a life measured in crumbs and silence — how small, how wasted, he thought.
The poor man watched the rich and framed his sorrow in a different light:
a man bound to the tick of ledger and clock, hollowed by the hunger for more,
wardrobe a mask for the verdict of strangers, meetings like ritual sacrifices,
a thankless household that drinks his labor, pills to fake a calm, plates that erode his days,
each hair a tiny duty in a life of careful posture — how lonely, how trapped, he thought.
Two mourners of different fortunes, each seeing lack in the other’s cup,
both blind to the fullness they might have traded for a single other thing:
freedom from fear, or freedom from want — and both moving on,
each carrying the sorrow of the one they believed themselves not to be.
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 8:25 PM UTC