Half beggar's tale

Years passed since Ι found myself on the water's edge, next to the trail to the village. I don't remember much before. The little Ι guess comes from rare glimpses of memory - and from the marks on my body.
Half of it, that is; since the rest looks gnawed away by some strange beast. Where had Ι been locked? Who or what was my custodian? I can't tell.
It took me days to gather strength to crawl on the path. Kindhearted folks nursed my bleeding wounds. They let me perch on a bench by the churchyard. I stay here since. A beggar.
Beggars prey on people's souls. I trade my sufferings for scraps of life and bits of affection. I feed on human grace. But the pain keeps growing - and at times feels like more than my heart can take.
Some nights, though, an angel visits my den. She strokes my brow and gently whispers in my ear. She speaks of glories past and virtues lost. Of braves astray and fires asleep. She tells of all. Of One.
Often, putting her soft hand on my chest, she gently shoves aside my rugs. And, as my missing half emerges in a glow, Ι see a broken blade and a twisted flute. I never know where these come from.
Then, in her sweet voice, she sings a strange tune. In a language at once outlandish and familiar

aunque el olvido que todo destruye
haya matado mi vieja ilusión
guardo escondida una esperanza humilde
que es toda la fortuna de mi corazón.