The Blind Storyteller

The Blind Storyteller

The fire crackled merrily in the night.
As all gathered round the storyteller.
An old blind man, but once his eyes were bright,
Bent with years, yet still a lively fellow. 
He told them, “Once upon those bygone years
A little girl ran away from her home.
She packed all her clothes and dried all her tears, 
And set out on foot in the dark alone.

She longed for her bed, but sat out the storm
In a lofty cave so dark and dreary.
Without a fire, she felt cold and forlorn.
She wished she’d told her folks she was sorry.

She dozed between the lightning and thunder,
Dreamed about her lovely, favorite books.
But a bolt tore the dark sky asunder.
In that second, a little life it took.

The young girl died in the streaming darkness,
Her bright eyes closed in everlasting sleep.
Her body was never found. I confess
That for the girl’s parents I must weep.”

The old storyteller wiped his blind eyes,
Wiped the tears away from his aged face.
He kept silent for a moment, then sighed,
Walked away from the quiet, crowded place.