The BLIND Walking across bridge of tears Flanked by memory·s fears Bolted upon piles of hope The blind with long stick shall grope In darkness loving to deepen Allowed if to steepen With every color literally black There is but courage to back Pushing, guiding them across Busy squares with busier men In perpetual rush of if n when The blind·s nights may not be darker Yet what they face is abjectly starker Ankur