The Blessing

Was not the words he wrote, nor the words he spoke . . . rather the song he sang of hope that brought him before the Pope. As he stood in the rain he searched not for fame . . . yet in his heart there burned a flame as he hummed his soft refrain. Blessings came down from high, though he could not grasp why . . . all he can do now is sigh, for all he wants is to be dry. When the man dressed in white disappears from sight and the crowd shuffles into night . . . he sings his song with new delight.