The steps of the blind are seconds
in a clock where doesn’t fall night nor morning
between his face and the time
there’s the fog
and when they get closer
they both feel a broken mirror in the dark
His eyes cross another places
with his face, like a music
that walks by another paths with our ears
Will he feel like deserts our mazes?
His fingers touch the sand and the ashes
and intuits that one is time
and the other what time forgot
His dawns and evenings don’t touch the sky
his voice drag trough words like a wave
and not like a hand
His pupils stand still like a unlit candle
that doesn’t feel darkness.
He touches the clocks, that are everywhere
and feel the time, wich is nowhere.
The time and the blind are the center of the same desert.
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Comments about this poem (Blindness by Daniel Quintero )
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