A blind poet walks by borrowed sight,
His fingers tread the flow of the air.
He gathers worlds in syllables of light
And hears the shape of faces everywhere.
A deaf painter stands before the dawn,
Her colors speak where sound has never been.
She listens with her eyes to what is drawn,
The hush of blues, from the ocean’s sheen.
He loves her in the rhythm of her steps,
In pauses where her presence softly stays.
He writes her name in metaphors he keeps,
And admires her through words in every way.
She loves him in the tremor of his hands,
In how his breath leans gently into verse.
She paints his silence, tries to make it stand,
Yet cannot hear the love within his words.
Between them lives a feeling pure and wide,
Too vast for tongue, too fragile for a sign.
Love waits unheard, unseen, yet undenied,
A truth both hold, but neither can define.
Dec 17, 2025
Dec 17, 2025 at 11:31 PM UTC
A blind poet walks by borrowed sight,
His fingers tread the flow of the air.
He gathers worlds in syllables of light
And hears the shape of faces everywhere.
A deaf painter stands before the dawn,
Her colors speak where sound has never been.
She listens with her eyes to what is drawn,
The hush of blues, from the ocean’s sheen.
He loves her in the rhythm of her steps,
In pauses where her presence softly stays.
He writes her name in metaphors he keeps,
And admires her through words in every way.
She loves him in the tremor of his hands,
In how his breath leans gently into verse.
She paints his silence, tries to make it stand,
Yet cannot hear the love within his words.
Between them lives a feeling pure and wide,
Too vast for tongue, too fragile for a sign.
Love waits unheard, unseen, yet undenied,
A truth both hold, but neither can define.
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