A blinded soul
is a stubborn thing.
It must be ground and battered,
shocked, in the hope that one day
it will remember how to see.
A soul can be so stubborn, it keeps its eyelids
tightly shut, until it must be thrown
into the furnace of stars, and exhaled
into the loneliness of space.
A soul can be so blind that it must be exiled
time and again, into bodies that are afflicted
with warts, boils and tumors.
Wake up, wake up!
Its eyes stubbornly clamped,
a soul will inherit careless mothers and cruel fathers,
like cold water in the face,
that it may through pure reflex
open its eyes, and see on the horizon
a glimpse of the home
from which all souls come,
to which they will, some day, return.
A stubborn thing is a blinded soul.
It has no memory of its memory.
It does not know
of the domain of seeing souls
who grieve for their lost brethren.
Won't you see, won't you remember?
they cry. To the blind
it is a faint and distant sound
drowned by the thunder
of clenched and blaming hearts.
Here it is, here it is!
Just open your eyes, just remember.
The glue that holds shut
the eyelids of your sightless soul
can be dissolved
by the tears of your long, sad sleep.