I see him now and then
But always along the same path
That leads from my house
to the MRT.
He would have been like you and me,
treading mindlessly along the path so familiar,
had he the bliss of vision
that we are so blind to feel.
He wears no shades
to cover his grey eyes
that stare emptily into the sky.
What his eyes fail to see,
he makes up with a thin white cane
that he swings ceaselessly
in a faultless semicircle
at an unerring pace
left to right,
right to left.
left to right,
right to left.
A swing punctuated
by frequent tappings on the ground
Tappings,
indistinguishable to the layman,
but tappings that warn him
of paths rising and falling,
of marble changing to concrete,
of concrete changing to road,
and of things but he along knows.
He leaves me in awe
of his awareness of his surroundings,
and his courage to take the step
into the big black unknown.
Yet he hears, feels and knows
that lies beyond this darkness
better than you and me.
And then two days ago,
we crossed paths again.
This time though,
his hand held no cane.
But it rested on the shoulders
of a stock, pleasant woman
who led him
along with, perhaps, his two little girls.
Somehow it felt good to know
That when the blind man walks
he does not always
walk alone.
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