The Strange Visitor.

The Morning, with a trumpet greets humble visitors,
Who enter this mystery as blind as when they leave.
And calls old and young from their many chores,
To meet and welcome and tug at this strange visitors sleeve,
To dance about him and prod and poke his chin.
As if he was rich amongst the most dreaded poor.
He watches then steal his coat and mar his kin,
They drag him, throw stones and mud like a local whore,
And leave him in the morning sunlight to weep.
Yet when I look close and see what they destroy, 
I cannot call myself alive and worship sleep,
For beneath their scratching I see the form of Joy.
The stranger has nothing to lose in this bewilderment,
Born alone, die alone and wed his resentment.