The Chair Maker and the Blind
“Chairs, chairs; I repair old chairs,” he’d cry out,
his sharp voice, somewhat out of tune, embarrassed,
as he passed next to the fields deserted for the last
few years. Big yellow, wild daisies were growing
all around the space. “I’m the chair’s man” and
the empty houses, with their shut windows, with the
nailed doors; Saturday, Sunday, Wednesday, second week.
And the old blind man, locked in the barn, forgotten,
sitting on manure “chairs, repair man, he’d beg, give me
a chair, just one chair.” The chair maker passed,
the blind man didn’t hear him, unwilling and sunken
in his voice.
Libros Libertad 