When I look into the eyes of the eyes of the blind, I realize they see me.
I realize that my needs are their needs, and I am free...
While they are stuck in their captivity.
I notice the color of my lime green scarf covering my apricot sweater.
I notice the sun, and the white frost of freezing cold weather.
My brown shoes they don't match, but that doesn't seem to matter.
And a wish to be skinny equals a wish to be fatter.
My fingernails are dirty, but yet they seem clean.
My body is as limber as a tank of gasoline.
I question the colors... painted on the walls.
I ponder the marble that is on the chamber floors.
I wonder if what I see is just a trick of the eye...
Who chose the rainbow, and is it all a lie?
Can the blind see the truth, no less than me?
If I close my eyes and feel, would I be set free?
I need to know that what the blind can't see is real.
Before I can claim that what I eat is a meal.
How do the blind know that what we tell them is round is round
How do they know, when they don't see the sound?
The blind needs my colors and substantiality
To believe what they cannot see is in fact reality.
But what about me how do I know what is real?
I guess we must wait till somebody closes my seal...
and then chooses to tell me what is real is real.