In yonder town where shadows softly creep,
There lived a leper, burdened deep with woe;
His skin, once fair, like snow, was now a heap
Of blemished scars, a tale of grief bestowed.
His visage marred, as if by tempests thrown,
Yet in his heart, a light of hope did grow,
With begging bowl and rags he oft was seen,
Amongst the throng where others lived serene.
His eyes, though dimmed, held wisdom far beyond,
And on his brow, a crown of sorrow's weight.
Yet with each breath, he cherished love, of fond
All souls, he claimed, were worthy of their fate.
A priestly faith did guide his weary hand,
He spoke in tongues that none could understand,
Of mercy’s grace, of life in every sore,
And beauty's bloom, though tough the path, he swore.
In summer's sun and winter's bitter chill,
He wandered forth, astride the cobbled ways,
From door to door, with gentle voice, a thrill
Of stories rich, that veiled the darker days.
His laughter rang, a chime of pure delight,
For in his heart, no malice took its flight.
He taught the townsfolk of love’s soft embrace,
With every word, he sought to leave no trace.
So here he stands, no judge, yet wise and bold,
In rags he sauntered, yet a spirit bright,
With tales of suffering turned into gold,
In every glance, a lesson clothed in light.
For though by fate, the world had cast apart,
This leper lived a life that touched the heart,
As Chaucer's pen would deem him more than meek,
A tapestry of love, profound and unique.