Afghani Bazaar

A Sightless musician
Singing Dari to himself
Wearing a drab brown
hand spun
Long shirt to his knees
Full baggy pants
Sturdy shoes with us tire
Sits among others
Drumming Down the sun
Under the vaulted roofs of
The bazaar in Heart
The streets just big
Enough for a donkey
Or a camel to pass
The merchants sit behind
Burlap sacks of spices and
The smells reach around
And grab you by your throat
Camel dung tobacco sweets
And spices perfume the air
While nimble tiny fingers of
A boy of five ties knots in
A magnificent rug that will perhaps
Someday grace a
Park Avenue Condo or lay
On the cool tiles facing
An Ocean
But By that time
The sweet smiling
Nimble fingered
Boy will have
Become a musician
Drumming down
the sun he will
No longer be able to see.


About the Author

Bashka Jacobs writes poetry & lives in Ohio, USA.