As I sit here hours milling away slowly,
let me tell you a story of a blind man and his sin.
He sees no colour to the seasons,
they hold no meaning.
It’s the sounds that tell him season turn,
by the silencing trees and the crunch beneath feet.
It’s the fragrance that sing of spring,
or the bone chilling wind that heralds winter.
He tastes the earth through tangelo
or a glass of red,
but no way can he describe the beauty as we see.
His eyes are his hands and feet, his ears and his skin.
He can tell you many things, the way we dare not see,
but he can not read emotions on faces unseen.
Think not to fool a man who gives his friendship blindly.
That sin is purely yours indeed.