We are born with kindness in our hearts,
a quiet urge to give, to share—
but giving all would leave me bare,
standing where the weary start.

So many turn their heads away,
passing by with lowered eyes,
ashamed of what they can’t erase,
of empty hands and silent sighs.

Some pockets hold only dust and air,
while mine hold coins, a privilege earned.
I ate with ease before I shopped,
no fear my fortune might be turned.

I do not judge, I do not scorn,
but pity lingers in my chest.
Their path is one I’ve never walked,
yet sorrow whispers, manifest.

If I had wealth, would I bestow
or clutch it close in quiet dread?
It’s hard to know until you’re there—
just like the ones who beg for bread.