Fingers

I met one day
 A man so kind
 With the things he’d say
 He’d blow my mind.

In the morning it all began
 When on a street I was walking past
 I saw seated a little man
 His face aghast, eyes crying fast.

To see him so it broke my heart
 And I asked why his face was long
 He looked up, said, “Harp-playing’s an art,
 But not if one of your hands his wrong.”

Then raise his right hand he did,
 His harp untouched on its stand.
 I then saw why – his fingers had slid
 Right off his right hand!

“When my fingers used to be,
 I could sit here and display
 The precious form of art in me
 All throughout the dreary day.

“Alas, my harp I cannot play,
 Or earn me any money,
 For, playing my harp throughout the day
 Would get me all my bread and tea.”

I asked him where his fingers had gone
 He said, “In the stomach of a shark.
 When I saved a drowning girl on an early morn,
 It took them, and swam off in the dark.”

So sad I felt for the little man
 Who was crying on the road,
 I thought, said, “Play your harp you can,
 Take my fingers, and sing me an ode.”

He smiled at me, his tears all gone,
 As I plucked five digits off my arm,
 Saying, “Here, put my fingers on,
 Keep them forever, it’ll do me no harm.”

-Farishta Anjirbag