Lost in the debris of secular life
The Holy Fool wears a mitre
But cannot tell you why.
I am not a priest, I am not a prophet;
I have never spoken on TV.
I spend my nights deep in the subway.
I am absolute in my poverty..
Commuters rarely notice him
They zig zag blindly passed his pitch
Smart phones pressed against their faces
But the Holy Fool is as wise as the Angels
Simplicity has gifted him
Eyes that can penetrate complex masks
Into the lonely lives of strangers.
His hands are bandaged. His tears like smiles
Stream his anguished face with rainbows.
He does not beg. Those few who greet him
Never again walk away from the poor.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
1st. June 2025.
I was thinking of a miracle of Saint Zita of Lucca.
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