In this ditch let me die.
I am old, weak and weary.
Passers-by will say: ‘He is drunk!’
All the better: they shall not mourn me.
Some I see who avert their gaze,
Others throw me a coin or two.
Run swiftly; join the festivities.
An old vagabond, I can die without you.
Yes, I die here from old age,
Since one does not starve to death.
I hope I shall see the poorhouse
Ease the distress of my death.
But every hospice is full,
So luckless are the people.
The street, alas, was my nurse.
An old vagabond, let me die where I was born.
As a young man, I said to those who had work:
‘Let me be taught a trade.’
‘Go’, they replied, ‘there is not so much work,
Go and beg.’
The rich said to me: ‘Work!’
I ate the bones from your meals;
I slept on your straw.
An old vagabond, I do not curse you.
In my poverty, I could have turned thief;
But no—it was better to beg.
All I stole was the apple
Ripening by the roadside.
Twenty times, though, they threw me
In prison, by order of the King.
They robbed me of all I had.
An old vagabond, I still had the sun.
Does a pauper have a homeland?
What are your vines and cornfields to me,
Your glory and your industry,
And all your assembled orators?
When the armed foreigner entered your walls
And grew fat,
I, like a fool, shed tears:
An old vagabond, I was fed by him.
Like an insect made to cause harm,
Why did you not crush me, O men?
Ah, rather had you taught me
To work for the good of all.
Sheltered from the adverse wind,
The worm would have become an ant;
I’d have cherished you as a brother.
An old vagabond, I die your enemy.
English: Richard Stokes © 2015