THE BEGGAR-WOMAN.

THE BEGGAR-WOMAN.

Red like the enigma of sleep
Crone cut to twelve sparrows, Cubist perfection.
Eyes that gleam out of wounds, their exactitude;
the flourish of the Roman Empire, in Moghul sensibilities:
Ghalib in Grecian Temples: roaming in juxtaposition of Time
a corruption? Well, of course.
the surrealist signs; papers sealed in golden flame;
the ink still wet: like blue parchment paper. the eye still moist
like love. the beggar woman is un-educated, yes of course,
but in our land, saints are often street-figures, haunting
like the sketches made of grey-green cloaks, standing unseen
suddenly appearing, requesting for the gleam of silver,
destined to part here: twenty black crows, the harbingers of death

They used to call her the "fakir" and in the Arabic script, it
foresaw the Saint: the one they were all afraid of.