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Blind

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A window cannot teach you to see,
and none will ever try.
It has not always been there
with its cold, smooth surface
awaiting the heat of your curiosity.
Translucence is only a template;
windows are not so timeless.
They are fragile,
and broken
though they lead lives of caution,
while we move dangerously beyond their scope.
A window risks nothing.
Still, this passage,
through which you stare at life,
does not envy your gaze.
Should you think to yourself, how
extraordinary, to be a window . . .
to have such vision,
it will only go on in silence.

A window cannot teach you to see,
past the ice,
dripping sweat from its brow.
There are fantastic worlds,
past the pane—
the window will suffer your knowledge of them.
When you transcribe your heart,
gentle fingers upon the glass,
the view is your slate.
Yet the window,
world cold, foggy daze,
can only display what you give it
briefly: your thoughts are fleeting.

A window cannot teach you to see,
the words you write in its eyes.
As you pass, and they hang there
in quiet, on the sill,
the window will not protest your parting.
Despite all of your views,
it holds only one,
cannot but reflect.
For the window sees everything
blindly.



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