The Blind Man

I asked a blind man, once, if he
Wished for a second chance to see
The world again with clear new eyes
And lose himself in clear blue skies.

“But how?” he asked, “For they are grey
And underneath, nought but decay.
The tender grass, the timid blooms
All crippled by our noxious fumes.

The heavens pierced by gleaming towers.
Their cruel sores bleed corroding showers;
And all the while the ocean grows
As if to binge away her woes.

So with my new unclouded eyes
I’d only see dark clouded skies.
You think you’re privileged to see;
In fact, you are as blind as me.”