The Harmattan wind puffed ponderous dust <br />into the air that evening in December <br />and from the rust appeared a blind beggar <br />wobbling with a cane behind a girl <br />who led the way across a mucky, uneven way. <br /> <br />She stumbled as she tried to keep pace <br />for the helper walked as if in a race <br />through a sullied street where I stood <br />flying kites with my mates. <br /> <br />“Your secrets, may God keep <br />Troubles, may you never see <br />Good fruits, may you reap.” <br /> <br />These words in a tongue strange, <br />like a monk, she sang in an even range <br />which had us in laughter reeling <br />as she stood before us begging. <br /> <br />Abased by our jesting, <br />her mouth in rancor detonated <br />spitting words in the panting wind <br />that squeaked like a balloon deflated. <br /> <br />Defeated, the teary wretch walked away; <br />her voice diminishing along the way. <br /> <br />When the Harmattan wind pants savagely <br />it now echoes with the rancor of the abased beggar <br />and I ponder what became of her and her helper <br />that evening in December.<br /><br />Birgitta Heikka<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-blind-beggar-from-the-north/
