Monday, May 07, 2018

The Song of a Blind Bard

 I am the last  blind bard,

They called me Blind Harry

have lost  my voice in the crowd,                                                                                        

Siting  down  the street

Watching the escalator -de chance . 

Like they say "To get  foot in the  door "

Sieving  the sound and fury  of the city,

Searching for  the supreme miracle ,

In His resurrection,

That may take place, right now and here; 

  In the Kings Cross'  T-station.

It is  a days before Harry's wedding,


 Despite queen's gloomy days,

I would sing  a couplet - from  the lyrics-

  Written  for a layman wedding, 

in my own prosperous  time.

The paper is still with me -crumpled

like a little note in the pocket of an old  beggar.

You don't know what those moments would mean,,                                                                                

for a blind bard in  London city ,

 Harry , and you,  dear Senorita:

 The breeds of such unique worlds:

Royal city, and light city

Let me sing my last song,

“Oh’ Ye too, dear  lady  ,                                                                                                                                 

"Bless our world and give  birth to a prince,

carry our viscous blood.

DNA full of magical genes,                                                        
 " In the next stanza.  

  "I won't lie,  though I know ,                                                                                                                                                         
"Heaven  is full of the liar prophets.

" Don't be shy,

" It is my friend who speaks in me,

"Unlike anyone , he is honest. 

"The man has taken a solace from this world.                                                                                      

"Oh’ dear, lady , when do you give birth to a Black Prince?”

Let me tell you in advance:

 “  He can't be a Machiavelli's toy ,

or Othello the Moore, "

O', you too , Diana  of Wales,

Forgive me for the valiant language,

It is written in my friend's diary,
We need an illegitimate child like ourselves,                                                          

  “In my place there is no difference between  saints and criminals,                               

" between  philosophers and fools ,                                                                                                             

"Between  temples and  harlotry."

 Heaven, however,  he says .

"Is very  much like this world."                                                                                                                         
He had told the reverent  Shakespeare 

"You are  practicing his-bravest day" 

“Oh’ , dear  princess, we need a real newborn                                                                                           

– Not an artificial baby  or king's clone!                                                                                                                         
We need a streak of  a tangible black  amongst all..”

Oh’, sweet, princess ;  the new dweller of the palaces, 

You have placed your body in a wrong place.

It is very much like mine;

 My  world is cold, and  painful ,

Full of the gazes of  disgust ,                                                         

Gazes of  Proletariat,
Dreaming of  platform   and third quarter  ,

Through which Harry has passed through                                                                                                                         
 The prophecy says ; it  might  open once again.  ,                                                                                                    

My name is  Blind Harry, my address is unknown  .                                  


 I feel the heavy steps of a man;

 David's steps falling down ,                                                                                                                         
David   known for his magical skills,                             

 Effortless-  coming down the escalator,

 Agile, like  Achilles  in the festival of colour-

 with a  wooden sword, and plastic phallus   ,                                                                                                   
He may say "I know You well."

He says. "Hi. "

I have no friends my Lady.

But I reply "Hi." 

Because he has a genuine frame.
” Hi, Buddy . It is a nice day."

I am the Blind Harry,

He says Nothing.                       

And in that astonishing  circumstance. 

 I  too say nothing.   

Thinking, silence is a self respect.                                                                                   
No, silence is the password, 

 No  can one crack the silence,

however, anyway- 

I am thinking  until I crack the password,

And I whisper.  

"Harry has said something,                                                                                                   

" But Harry might have saluted a wrong person." 

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