Hugging the outside wall
as if a shadow
He sees in the dark, sure
a hint of motion
will converge the guards
It is my sudden and strong
Singing voice
they will hear, a fakir's
timeless mantra
on the Fourth Way
The saint has made gifts
of his adornments, turned
land over to the homeless,
and cloaked himself
in a beggars’ identity
Outside the gates of the city
that barred his re-entry
a crowd awaits the Wonderworker
and I fall at his feet, calling out
the 99 blinded names
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