The Banjara…
His turban rolled,
His beard outgrown,
In a beaded tired attire,
A jhola in tow,
A look forlorn.
He arrived pristinely,
In the town square
And spread his belongings
on the land bare.
He went about his day
Trading his craft for grains
He played his organ
Until the light faded away.
The elderly loathed him
A vagrant, they called him
Kids flocked to him however
They found the old hag endearing
Since they were privy to magic
For the first time ever.
A few days here
Then a few days there,
The Banjara toured the city,
Amongst every small and mighty.
After a long day
Of treading through the town
He rested away
By the wayside until dawn.
Everyday he awoke and spent
His day with the kids in tow
This continued a while
Little did the little ones know
One day they would reach the wayside
To find the Banjara in his sleep had died.
With nowhere to go
No one to care
He was buried beside
The same town square.
The kids cried a bucket
Their hearts so pure,
They collected his trinkets
And as they placed it
Along side his grave,
The elders sighed
But none shed a tear.
It continued to be somber awhile,
Until again a man arrived.
His Turban rolled,
His beard outgrown,
In a beaded tired attire,
A jhola in tow,
A look forlorn.
Sat pristinely in the town square
And placed his belongings
On the land bare.
