Vendor Poem by Hanan Muzafar

It was eclipse of June,
and plague roaming,
Only few vendors, were on streets,
Among others,
one catched my gaze:
Cause none was looking,
what he was selling.

Head down hung in poverty,
hand on nose,
consumed by eternal despair and grief,
we didn't talk, so I took his picture,
and he smiled.

I came again to see him,
but he was not there;
I asked others for his name, and address;
His house cramped,
full of people and children,
I asked them,
where is he?
They said 'He's gone'
As if he was even rejected by his own.

Some are so strange,
no matter what we do,
we can't paint them;
Where from they come,
where do they go: No one knows?
Never I saw him again.