I saw misery disguised as a man,
Its body was trapped in rags,
Its presence spoke of countless pains;
I saw a man, and he was misery;
His eyes reflected a thirst for compassion,
yet he was just another bum in the train.
He had the mark of an ordinary scene,
Not enough to stair the heart of the passengers;
I looked into his eyes, and something terrible changed,
I saw myself in his pupils;
I was frighten, scattered, shaken
by the scene before me,
Was that really me who I saw in his eyes?
Or, was it he that reflected back on mine?
The train shook through the underworld,
Its creaks spoke of decay, of long journeys,
As did the soul of this miserable man.
I looked straight into his eyes -once again,
my gaze into his soul revealed wounds centuries old,
Out of his pupils, suffering rose into shape:
Losses, exiles, indifference, abandonment,
I do know those timeless wounds,
Even though I was not certain of the man;
Who are we both, the beggar and I?
as I uttered my question
An inner whisper rushed an answer to my ears:
“We are the invisible, the forgotten creations of a god”
Cuadro: El Mendigo (1645) de Murillo