Every day after my daily drill, I return
Like a weary soldier, wanting peace within
And around me, an escape to my world;
I find him, without fail, every day waiting
To alleviate my worries, he plays; auburn
Fingers gliding over the pipe held between
His lips. Melody, melancholy, love, lust,
All flow from him to me as I sit; a cup of tea
On my lap. Easing body and mind at once.
My window wide open, lest I miss a note
He flourishes now and then. Untimely, surprising
Bundles of harmony matched with tap of
Tin with sticks, stones made by gay urchins
Who sometimes visit. I see them come and go
Like sea storms. The piper remains, playing
His soul to all. What he eats, sleeps, I know not.
Except, that is, of the food packages I accidently
Drop near his shabby blanket on the road.
He pauses, I hurry. And he begins a new tune.
People grown so used to him, he will for sure
Be missed, perhaps more than the impugn
Minister whose statue stands at the bazaar, it will soon
Rust more like the State, be rotten and doomed.
The piper pulls his blanket closer each day,
His emaciated limbs curling beneath. I am scared
Every day I return, fearing the black blanket
And the brown piper will be gone unprepared
Into the bliss. Leaving me in this untoward world.
I pray, O Lord, let the piper survive and his pipe keep playing
So that every day I shall look forward to something.
And when the ax hangs on his neck, i too shall accompany
With love of a fellow-being, prepare him for another journey.
