--
Judgment is born with silence,
expression bears familiarity,
and knowledge sleeps around with faith,
providing speculation based on morality.
--
Blind people can see
the color of your skin:
after all, they can feel your pride;
they can see
the way you glance to God -
they can feel your certainty inside.
Blind, she can read your torn-up, ragged pages -
she can feel your cuts;
she can feel the light radiating off your eyes,
the way you talk to her makes her smile, exactly
how your cheeks curve whenever you smile.
A family once brought up together.
Gray hair soft, liver spots perfect,
wabi-sabi signature adorned by leather.
Forged time has passed, now a jubilating chat -
“We knew each other once, is it still the same?” then said in haste,
“I missed you, you’re beautiful: have you known that?”
She heard telephones, boys pushing, toys spying.
“I don’t,” she said, “I’m old,” -
and you knew she was not lying.
Time runs out, no first step made;
the glimmering of her fire is going blind -
death walks through the door:
little girl no more,
the other nevermore alive.
Her last words:
“Don't gain the world and lose your soul,
wisdom is better than silver or gold...”
“Send me a letter, grandma, will you, from the heavens?
I know you are okay up there, sold.
No more blind; with your husband.
I’ll meet you once again, when my hours will toll.”
Grief is what your swollen eyes accept;
self distempered at defect,
and taken into custody:
for solitude is not at all your friend.
