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Perfect Blind Sight

The old man, o’ wisened cheeks,
took his hand in mine,
and I, too young to see his soul,
urged him to move quicker in time.

“Young man,” he smiled,
eyes lifted up in the corners,
“You move like the rapid river,
yet for all your speed,
remain none the warmer.”

He took the lead, and walked ahead
But all I could see was his heavy stride
The proud arch of his elderly back
Yet the curve of many miles to ride

“Look ahead, young lad, but do not fear your journey,
For what steps you take are all your own path.”
I could not help but look at him,
and I suppressed a laugh.

“Old man, how are you so full of life?
What has been given to you, to make your travels so clear?”
And he turned to me, under a tree limb bent,
his hand over my heart, whispering, “Here.”

“When all the papers, and problems,
and sighs drift away,
when you are wanted, and loved,
and value the light of day,
when you can see, but to others are considered blind,
then you shall truly know
the heart’s test of time.”

And the gnarled old man, taking his hand from my heart,
smiled and pointed to a trail to my right.
He continued walking on his proud, ancient way,
and I looked ahead, with perfect blind sight.




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