Touching her forehead to the cobblestone street
And raising her upturned palms in the air,
The beggar maintains her pose for hours--
A pose of misery, pain, and despair.

Into the Venetian square pours
A constant flow of tourist mobs.
Few pay any attention
To the beggar's miserable, plaintive sobs.

Once in a while her eye will catch
The eye of somebody passing by.
Feeling remorse, disgust, or discomfort,
The person turns away with a sigh.

Occasionally, a kind-hearted
Soul will drop a coin in the palm
Of the beggar woman's beseeching hand,
Hoping to give her a moment of calm.

"Grazie molto, signore, signora,"
The woman cries, lifting her head.
Tears stream down her wrinkled cheeks
From watery eyes, puffy and red.

"Don't encourage her," somebody says.
"Why doesn't she find some employment?"
"How disgusting!" says another.
"She puts a damper on my enjoyment."

Who knows the desperation
That brought the woman to her current state?
It's always easier to turn one's head,
To criticize or castigate.

One man says, "You'll never find me
Begging like her. That's what I know."
He's unaware that the poor woman
Said the same thing years ago.

-by Bob B