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Poem

He moves through realms where silence speaks,
Where light and shadow never meet,
A man whose gaze is bound in thread,
Yet sees the cosmos in his head.

Not in the dance of sun and star,
But in the pulse of what is far—
The world, a script with braille-laced lines,
Where every touch a truth defines.

To him, the air is not mere breeze,
But waves of language, soft, at ease,
Each breath a verse, each gust a song,
In melody where shadows long.

The earth beneath is not mere ground,
But whispers where the roots resound—
Each tremor speaks, each tremor tells
The story only silence swells.

For sightless, his mind draws light,
In forms no eye can grasp or sight—
He traces stars that never set,
And sees the dark with no regret.

Where others seek in vacant skies,
He listens to the ancient cries
Of galaxies unseen by day—
His mind, a lens that bends the grey.

His world is built from touch and sound,
From every whisper, every pound—
A texture rich, a feel so vast,
Each grain of time, forever cast.

No pity, no lamenting eyes,
For he has learned that truth defies
The visible, the tangible frame—
In silence, he has found his name.

And as the day slips into night,
He feels the pulse, the quivering light,
Not in the stars that burn and die,
But in the depths where dreams can fly.

For in the dark, where others fear,
He listens close and draws them near—
A world unseen, yet deeply felt,
A vision beyond sight’s cruel belt.

He is the keeper of the sound,
The keeper of the sense unbound,
And though the world may see in vain,
He wears the dark like summer rain.

In places where the blind must tread,
He’s learned to live, to love, to spread—
For in his absence of the light,
He’s found the vastness of the night.

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