A man walks from the mists of time; his dusty feet
are sore and marked by his long road; his ratty clothes
can barely hold together; nor can this man eat,
for every bite he gets immediately flows
to others who may need it; so he's gaunt and thin,
his skin hangs from his bones like thief hangs from the stock;
yet joyfully he wanders; to the angels kin,
he's full of wonder, anchored to the fastest rock!
For him his rags will best the finest silken clothes,
and emptiness is fuller than the glutton's gut;
by having naught he all things on himself bestows,
and poverty grants him of all good things a glut;
and by recalling what is angel, what is ass,
he does both man and even angel far surpass.
