An acquaintance of an awakening kind

I think I know him

Though not by name,

That man in the dust-smeared gho;

With tearful eyes peering,

Through the foliage of uncombed hair.

He is ill perhaps!

I am worried he is young,

Yet the furrows!

And if my conscience is true

He has a child or two

From a widow he mothered once

Like a faded frescoes \

In a dimly lit temple,

Sat he at the corner of Moonlit Bar,

Only bones and veins beneath the rind,

A desolate friend did I find;

No better than a moth on a cabbage leaf

That  thrive healthy by day-light

And dance round the glow at night

Among throng of its own.

I entreat in modesty his forgotten name;

He surveyed me with his ruddy eyes

In recognition or in hidden shame;

Stuttered as he spoke

Like a wounded general,

And the breath was foul waste of wine;

I think I chanced sooth upon his brow!

Alas! He was Dawa,

The epitome in manners at school,

Gross years thence,

The light and love

And idol of yesteryears!

‘My friend,’ said he in senseless murmur,

‘To the echoes that arose from the crevice

Of my heart I listened,

And heard not the whispers

of my wise elders,

Thus I failed them,

The essence of my name and hope,

Blinded by the light of my ignorance

In my innocence walked astray,

Fettered to drugs and dame

Smoke and wine

Hither I am,

No better than a moth

On a cabbage leaf.’

I paid his bills,

I pat on his bony back,

And out I walked with repentance

Gnawing my helpless sinews,

In reverence to him

For his revelation.