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A blind man in the bus stop.


That was a sunny day, a Monday morning with sweet zephyr,
The bus stop crowded with the white collared people, the color going well with the weather.


To the corner of the stall there stood a man with stick in his hand,
Eyes blindfolded as if harry potter wielding his magic wand.


He waited for a while then tried crossing the road, 
Taking one step front and two back as a hopping toad.


I looked at him silently, as a passive onlooker,
I had to reach my place and play snooker.


The blind man called people and pleaded them,
Help me cross the road and get over this mayhem.


I thought helping him, then decided against,
Remembering the morning news that gave me  a bad taste.


A blind man snatching a woman's chain made into page six,
What to do or not, i was in a fix.


Thinking deeply into the matter I got lost,
Peasants came and gone ignoring the unfortunate chap,
I couldn’t blame others as i too didn’t play host.


Suddenly  a beggar evolved in rags, and grabbed the blind by arms,
Carrying in other hand a bowl carrying alms.




They crossed the road and my bus arrived, I boarded the bus and watched them reaching other end.

The beggar looked back and our eyes met,
His piercing eyes made me lower mine and fret.


Even today I remember those dark eyes piercing my heart,
Asking me the question, if I can value my alms why can’t you value the color of your shirt


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