If I could see the world I'd paint it so the blind could see it too
So that they could hover there fingers over the strokes of France and Italy
Or maybe they could smell the culture from the continental divides
Or maybe they could just envision the architecture at its easel
But what's the point when they can already see.
When they can touch the world and feel the boundless gravity
The kind that holds its ground in rich escapades
Or maybe they could hear the gunshots of the hate
But what's the point when paintings will warp soon.
And even with all the paper paintings and all the paper planes,
We might even see the world too.