The Nomad

He staggered through the gates, his sore limbs boasting of harsh labor;

One evening as the sun reposed after a hard day’s toil.

Do you need an extra hand up the makeshift bamboo ladder?

Lifting brick, gravel, cement, and soil?

His fatigued eyes shone with hope,

Of a day’s work that would come his way.

He washed his dirt-clad frame with sweet-scented soap

And dried his tattered wear for a day of stay.

His voice crackled glass when he was sober,

Mounting materials on his charred back.

Sometimes he would drop to the floor like his work was over,

And leave us wondering if it was the strength he lacked.

A stone for a pillow, a concrete slab for his bed,

He would snore like he was in the cradle of a king.

A marble tile or a wooden block for his head,

On worn bamboo poles, his body would cling.

After a few hours of rest, the angel would come alive

With the force and power of a Spanish-bull fighter.

He would rock, sway and say with a sigh,

Another day labor, Sir, I’m a good worker.

The Nomad was a mystery man,

Untracked, unhindered by human constraints.

No friends, family, tribe or clan,

No roof, money, but joy unrestrained.