The gold sits somewhere in the bank,
On intimate terms with the pampered millions. But over there,
The blind beggar is a stranger to a single copper coin,
As inaccessible to it as a dusty corner beneath the wardrobe.

Money is at home along all the row of shops,
And you can see it dressed in furs, in silks, with carnations.
But he, the silent one, stands in that pause between breaths
Of all that breathing money as it wakes and sleeps.

Oh that hand forever extended, how can it close by night?
Fate will bring it again tomorrow, and every day,
It will always be held out there, clear, squalid, destructible.

If only an on-looker could see it and with astonishment perceive
And praise its persistence! But this can only be said in song,
It can only be heard by the gods.