A blind man
roams God’s twenty one villages
wearing his blindness like a treasure.
He strikes out in loss, and in loss his staff leads him.
Sometimes he fancies that the earth is his friend’
wherever his feet end up
he is the drinker and the watering hole.
He inquires into things about which he is never asked.
He is the first,
an indigent, a recluse,
and he is eternity.

But God’s twenty one villages
are unjust…
Someone may bury him alive in a well and conceal it.
Someone may choke him in a resting place.
Or wolves may claw him away from the women of the brothel.
So now he must steady his steps
and race with dangers
to pass through terror…
     Damascus 12/9/1992

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