The Cobbler 

Under the shade of a building sat a cobbler,
He had a glut of sandals, boots, flipflops around him.
Most of them are ripped and torn,
The wall behind him had an array of leathered brown skin,
There was a keg on his right side,
That was spotted with ooze and mud,
There was a wooden box on his left side,
All his bits and odds, the tools were niceties scattered around him,
As a mind stuck in a limbo,
He acted as a magician and his crucible turned the pale into gold, the torn got mended.
All came to him like the beggars of the road and came out of his court of palace rich and fecund.
His magic worked and cast a spell,
He acted as a mother who lulls the child,
The slippers in his benign hands,
The child was no more scowling, wrinkling in fume,
And the scrape made it fit, natty and hale,
A woman with an amulet in her hands waiting for salubrious flicks,
Gets medicine for her woes sewn for her care ,the scute,
It wrapped her tense mind in velvety balm as she herself was wrapped in a shawl, all muffled.
The hands of the cobbler were constantly and ceaselessly moving,
It seemed the whole world was rotating on the spin of his fingers.
His hands podgy, lined and grimed assimilate the warmth and glow of the diamond mines,
His scraggly beard his rumpled face,
The forehead, the edges of his eyes met and crossed one another in cross line,
They entangled like the mat of shrubs in the roots of a tree aged thousands of years.
It took me to the roads of a tricky path, bewildered and musing,
It is here where junctures of happiness, contentment, worry and grief segregate.
I can never forget you,
The cobbler, the life giver to dead.