Blind

In the hush of midnight, shadows fold,
A world unseen, yet stories told—
The blind see music in the wind,
Feel colours pulse beneath the skin.

Their fingertips trace braille constellations,
Each raised dot a quiet revelation;
Silence becomes a canvas, wide,
Where thoughts take shape where eyes cannot bide.

They walk the streets with steady tread,
Guided by echoes, not by red;
The scent of rain, the hum of trams,
A tapestry woven without lenses or lamps.

In darkness they discover light,
A inner glow, forever bright;
For vision lives not just in sight,
But in the heart’s unyielding sight.