The blind that see
One day while visiting the east,
I saw a holy man, a preist.
Everyday I saw him there,
Counting beads and saying prayer.
Never a pause, he never stopped,
As beads touched, circled and dropped.
Though blind and vacant was his stare,
Each bead he dropped a silent prayer.
His power closed around his space,
Even though the beads defaced.
And the string grew thinner each day,
As his fingers wrinkle and grey.
He seemed so very much at peace.
Devotion seemed, was his surcease.
And one by one the beads kept time,
Like echoes from a bell in chime.
His hands a halo, paper thin,
As zeal poured forth from within
And I wondered at the soul of he,
His blind faith and what of me?
That day I left by caravan
And felt some how a different man.