He is  a beggar, blinded  by fate 
You can  find  him outside  the railway gate,
Seated on a  discarded  tablet  of   stone
Beneath  an old tree within   the  cone
Whose  apex  leads  to  the  fort  arch
Bald  head , peering   nose  tip,
Deep eye -sockets  and  hidden upper lip;
Yet  he sings , and  loudly  too
With an occasional  and  weird  moo
That  makes passersby halt  and  hear

Hypnotic  words and  living  motion
Stories , battles , wars   in verbal  potion
The gallops , and clang of shield and sword
Bloodshed  and moan , parted  bodies and  frenzied  horde
The listener stands  still  and   intent .

The fort and   the inner , structure is  yet  again
Before the mind’s  eye ! The  pangs and  pain
The voices ,noises and  the smell  of  the battle
For ever  in  the  moody  mind to  rattle
Oh !  the  power of  boundlessly dark , blind vision

Like Homer and Milton he  can  sense ,
Hear , smell ,  see  and  feel — all  intense ;
Is  this vision beyond the realm of the  real  ?
Strength ,weakness, sobriety or a wild  ordeal  ?
Life is  a  paradox  of  fullness   in  the  null  !


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