I am like a starving beggar
just standing at your door;
an old beragged beggar
who is too afraid to knock.
Afraid to knock and ask for
a morsel of your bread.
It's Winter and it's raining,
and I am frozen cold,
but you have shut your door
and I don't dare to knock.
I am cold, and hungry and thirsty,
but I don't dare to knock,
because my fear is stronger,
more painful than my thirst,
more painful than the hunger
that's gnawing at my heart.
I do not dare to knock
because you know I am there.
You know I'm standing there,
just starving at your door.
You know it since we met,
by chance, by chance or fate,
and you saw me as I am,
beragged, and ugly and old.
Your eyes turned in disdain,
and then you passed by,
without a second glance,
without a thought for me.
I was singing a song,
I was telling a story,
hoping to catch your ear
while you were going away.
You carried on, and I
began to follow you
singing louder and louder
until you reached your door.
I'm singing at your door,
but I don't dare to knock.
You didn't listen then,
and you won't listen now.
But you do know I am here
and that I sing for you.
It's not a begging song;
you know that I won't beg.
Too proud to beg, too proud,
old beggar that I am;
but not too proud to sing
the only song I know
to make me heard by you.
The beggar at your door
is starving, thirsty and cold.
You know that you could save me
with just a slice of bread,
that you could make me happy
with just a word from you
the lilt of your sweet voice,
the whisper of your breath...
A slice of bread, a morsel,
a crumb, even a crumb
could make me glad for days,
and could make me forget
my hunger and my thirst,
the weary years to come,
the nothing at their end.
A crumb of bread from you
could bring me back to life,
could give me songs to sing,
and more stories to tell.
A simple word from you
could make wonders for me,
could make me young again,
give beauty to my world;
could set a sparkling rainbow
athwart my stormy sky
and herald a new Spring
in this Winter of mine...
It's only a dream, I know;
a little, brittle dream,
a radiant crystal bubble,
so frail, so flimsy that
could easily disappear
or be smashed to bits
by silence and indifference:
your deaf ear to my song.
You know it all since then,
you know it all too well.
You know it all and yet
you keep me starving there,
and keep your door tight shut.
I'm starving at your door,
and you know I can't knock;
can't beg a piece of bread,
because even a loaf
of the best bread on earth
would not appease my hunger
if I have to beg for it.
The whitest bread on earth,
the finest drink there is
would turn to ash and gall
if you keep shut your door
and make me beg for it.
