THE HERMITFor Edward SaidHe stands outside the walls
with a torch. To the courtiershis light is a novelty; something quaint
flickering like a distant staramusing, at best, but often
trivial and dismissible. He stands therein the rain, in the midst of wars
his beard grows long and whitehis torch burning night and day.
The empire’s nobles and courtesansoccasionally remark on his perseverance
and almost always mock his passions. Butto us, the homeless peasants
his torch is an oraclethe beacon of survival
during the onslaughts of storm and pillage.We gather around like moths
warm our eyes on his flamesthanking our goddesses and gods
that he’s here to shed lighton our forgotten lives. O, how
lost we’ll be without him.