The Blind Man
From the eeriness of an emerald forest
To the tranquility of a silent village,
There lived a blind man
A bizarre man he was
Along came another man,
Who would count the stars,
Would feel the trees
And would sit in his little chamber
Whilst the blind man would feed the birds
Many days would pass
He would create several volumes
He would fill several jars
And would write in his little chamber
Whilst the blind man would mingle with children
A couple years further
He would publish his works
He would host fine dinners
And would boast about his little chamber
Whilst the blind man would polish his only shoes
Soon the time came
Where he would grasp his last breath
He would make his final gesture
And pass away in his little chamber
Whilst the blind man would cry incessantly
Centuries would pass
His ideas would promote change
His works would foster machinery
And a museum would form of his little chamber
Whilst the blind man would become a mere memory
A mystery the blind man was
For he never asked
And he never sought
But would relentlessly saunter happily
Whilst the novel man would franticly search in grief