Let these windows be the theatres,
Where the play is wild and original,
Where every cast is a superb actor,
Where the story is the best fiction,
Like a farm boy on an old tractor.
Let these eyes be the camera,
Where the view is sharp and shaped,
Where every object gets an imperfect finish
Where the image is at its crown grace.
The portrait of the lost gimmicks.
Let these skies be the shower,
Where from the rain falls to cleanse,
Where the head gets a awe spin,
Where its virtue had always been,
The roof over a million dreams.
So I care not,
If I am the blind for this earth,
The ghost of an enemy,
With no eyes, I still feel,
The rewarding gift of eternity.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 4:28 AM UTC
Let these windows be the theatres,
Where the play is wild and original,
Where every cast is a superb actor,
Where the story is the best fiction,
Like a farm boy on an old tractor.
Let these eyes be the camera,
Where the view is sharp and shaped,
Where every object gets an imperfect finish
Where the image is at its crown grace.
The portrait of the lost gimmicks.
Let these skies be the shower,
Where from the rain falls to cleanse,
Where the head gets a awe spin,
Where its virtue had always been,
The roof over a million dreams.
So I care not,
If I am the blind for this earth,
The ghost of an enemy,
With no eyes, I still feel,
The rewarding gift of eternity.
