Old Blind Man

The old man on the hill,

Who cannot see,

Sits there every day,

And stares at me,

As I think to myself,

If he is blind,

How does he know I pass him by?

I begin to ponder

And as I say to him,

“You sit there and stare at me day by day,

Our world,

Who calls you blind?

But who are they,

And who am I,

Leaves the question, (or “to leave the question”)

Which one of us is truly blind?”