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 !
