A nobler soul at gate awaits
In faith for alms from men,
Who come to deify the one
That sits beyond her ken.
To whatsoever flung her way
A cheer imbues her face,
And eyes, though groping unto end,
Abide to beam a grace.
What whets such acts in passersby -
A bid to better pride?
A trammeled warmth that sneaks awhile?
Or guilt that plagues inside?
Of all designs none nears the shrine,
For every tribe, which pleads
In here to fill a void or greed,
Is drawn by own proceeds.
Jan 16, 2013