He wasn't adorned in kingly attires
And neither did beads of ruby and pearl
glisten on that rusty neck,
And yet this man..
He caught my sight,
As I stood staring, gaping
And painting his image in my mind!
The brown cloak
hung loosely along his sides,
I squint my eyes and then do I see,
It wasn't a cloak but a sack,
A sack tailored to veil
his royalty!
He sat there and his
squalid eyes did meet my gaze,
Unflinchingly did they
stare down upon me.
He raised his ruddy fingers to
his lips,
and watched the ringlets of smoke
dance in air,
as he smoked his cigarette!
There were scars engraved
on that coarse brown skin,
They opened like little mouths,
Mouths that fed on the city dust and dirt,
And such was the pallid image that
this stranger
Present before my sight.
And still he made me feel so small
He had no palace,
And yet those eyes looked
upon the busy street,
Like a monarch who would
look upon his Royal gardens,
Thrilled at the beauty and splendour,
Held in those violets blooming bright!
The footpath became his throne
With those hands rested upon his knees
and the fingers that momentarily
stroke the rugged chin
He was a heir to a million thrones
And bewildered me,
With his obscurity!
He seemed aloof of my existence,
As he gazed at the ringlets he drew in air,
And then he became one with it,
Leaving me alone to fight my ambiguity...
"He's just a wanderer"people
do tell,
But I ask myself, who was he!
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