Old man sat by the side of the road,
All hunched and warty like a toad.
Day in day out his place was there,
The village idiot, more wise than fair.
Rain poured down laving dirty feet;
The gods declared it his personal treat.
He sat and smiled his toothy grin
Knowing they’d washed him of his sin.
Drains beneath him sang songs of joy
He learned their voices and became their Roy.
Sun beamed down and bleached hair white;
The stone held its warmth for him at night.
Pilgrims came and stooped down to chat;
He squatted there and chewed the fat.
Things inconsequential became sublime;
When old man spoke them, they were divine.
A touch of his hand blessed all with grace;
Uplifted were they who looked on his face.
Word of his wisdom spread wide and inspired.
Gutters were cluttered by crowds who aspired
To speak with the holy man raised from the ranks.
Forgotten were errors and childhood pranks
When old age claimed him though none other would.
Blind eyes and deaf ears were of no further good,
So blessèd was he who had lived and endured,
Whose body and soul to pain were inured.
When Karma was paid, the meek one was raised
And Earth welcomed the beggar with all due praise.
© Nyuka Anaïs Laurent 01.02.04
Second poem on Old Man theme