Poorrich Man

In a garden of dark sunlight
Firmly stands a sinewy tree
Below it sits a poorrich man
Rich as heavenly rich a man can be
Poor as beyond perception
Between the folds of his white flowing hair
Humble wisdom can be seen
Among the lines of his ancient beard
Innocence is flickering

Royal he is
A temple of the universe
Yet slave like
Not even a brick of your world’s mosque

Fog of melancholy envelops him
Yet a ebullient smile hovers on his lips

Efadul says,
Sane and saintly with an ugly attire
Austerity lurks behind a vulgar exterior

In his hand a sleek flute
Dancing souls in trance are its loot
Entombed in him is a chimney of love
His bright smile is that chimney’s soot

That lustrous night dark skin of his
Lights up the despairing day
Light reminds a mystified me
I am made of clay