BY A POET GOING BLIND, 63
When a man reaches seventy,
He realizes that what he has looked at
He has never seen,
Not even the backyard oak
On whose branches flickers once danced.
Now, he has little time to look and see,
But he will stare,
But it will not be the old stare
Through the blindfold of
What he was taught, what he was told.
He will no longer look at life
Through the language of lies
That people and professors
Speak and believe.
He will stare at the tree
Without their language,
Without their lies;
After living seventy years in vain,
Finally, he will see one real thing.