The Blind Man of Marrakech
Sitting down
In the shade of an orange tree
With the mosque to his right
and the park to his left,
He takes in the sounds and smells of the square
And revels in the flutter of
An orange blossom
On his balding head,
As he sips the last of his mint tea.
Rising from the bench,
He protects his head
From the scorching sun
With the hood of his Djellaba
As he makes his way towards the junction.
Reaching a set of traffic lights,
He leans on his walking stick –
Waiting for one of the passers-by to notice him.
They pass,
One by one,
To his left,
Then to his right.
The lady with the chirpy voice,
Speaking to her friend on the phone,
Waiting to cross when the lights go red.
Has she noticed him?
If only she did!
Then he would tell her
About the lies
Sprouting from her friend’s mouth.
The lights change.
The lady crosses.
The blind man waits.
The young couple giggling
In that haze of new-found love.
Have they noticed him?
If only they did!
Then he would tell them
About the girl’s husband,
Lying in wait by the market square.
The lights change.
The couple crosses.
The blind man waits.
A young man approaches him.
“Sir, may I help you cross?”
He nods and lets the boy take hold of his free arm.
Together they make slow progress
Across the crowded junction.
As they approach the other side,
He tells the young man not to worry.
His daughter will not die.
She will live a long and healthy life.
Originally published on mohmanyang. More from me:
