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Imprisoned in a cloistered world that he can never share,
Touching and handling all objects that he will never see,
Hearing different voices from lips he can never look upon,
Suffering the churl's cruelty never even seeing the frown.

Grateful for any help being led but never seeing the smile,
So sad he has never looked at the face of a wife nor child,
Lead him up to a mountain with valley's full of wild flowers,
As beauty radiates across nature and the dark green fields.

His hands, like yours, his foot presses on a heathery carpet,
He feels the same flowers wild flowers shrink in his weight,
The selfsame breezes fanning us all our warm faces cooled,
He feels the same warm glow of sunshine beating on his brow.

He can hear the bleating of a wild goat as it skips the peaks,
The shrill cry of the kite as floats around his rock bound nest,
A mountain torrent warbles it's notes and far away a vesper bell,
Ringing from a distant church adds to the magic of our nature.

He cannot look down on the spangled floor of beautiful flowers,
He misses the flitting clouds as they sail in on gossamer wings,
There morning horizons that bring a tear or no sunsets to sigh at,
In his total blackness he lives a life of solitude and loneliness.

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