They possess vision, absent sight,

Minds woven with threads of vivid colors,

Dexterous hands, cheerful hearts,

They possess a gift, and yet they cannot see what they have,

They long for the things, to which you only close your eyes,

You have your precious mornings, the glowing sun,

You have your moon, the blur of stars,

A sky littered with celestial light…

All they have is the dark,

A silent blackness, shrouding every thought.



They live on the crumbs of our words,

Ordinary descriptions, igniting enchanted thoughts,

For them, the sea has a voice,

She speaks to their hearts, promising adventure amidst chaos and calm,

They listen – Libations to her charm.

The breeze of the Harmattan is not without its thoughts,

A contradiction of cold tales and arid fibs,

Only in their minds does such difference find a fit,

And yet they feel…they feel it and they know.



Roses have their thorns,

For them its contrast is more than enough,

For we all need the blessings to balance our faults,

Spike here, silk there,

They don’t have to see,

They are schooled by the stucco they confront…


Their every memory laden with knowledge and truth,

Life for them transcends the habitual burden of proof,

Their thoughts are an elixir for their ever youthful minds,

Interwoven with threads and seams dyed in ardor,

I dare say, the blind doth’ see color…