I knocked at the door of this old hermit.
His neck is almost unsightable and his back his bent.
I have come to see the man whose voice awakes all
He passes my street often looking not up at all.
My mouth was left agape as I peeped in
I wondered at the beauty of art* exhibited therein.
Even with two hands many can do nothing.
I wondered at the dexterity of this single-handed man.
The old man is the artist, I know.
The rich man down his street made us all know.
The door was opened and he asked the often asked:
“Hello. How may I help you?” I became blank, ran after I sneezed.
I had only wanted to know if he was so ugly
But now I’ve come to realise that no man at all is ugly.
The beauty of this man still amazes me.
I learnt that he has no wife;
I am still a maiden and he’s so wealthy.