For the unknown is an intriguing terror, he sought
The hues of the dispassionate sky.
And he, a blind man,
Sought to hear what sight had denied.
He asked a man, and he asked a dozen,
And he heard sapphires and ceruleans and cobalts aplenty,
But what were colours, to he?
Hollow, hollow words that they were,
They cloaked his sky in blankness.
Yet, curiosity grew, as curiosity did.
A matter of circumstance then led
The man to an artistic soul.
The painter, with pride, proclaimed,
That he, indeed, was the master of hues.
The blind man wondered out aloud-
'Pray, what was the humble sky to him?'
With a trill, the artist replied-
"For men such as I, it is but a conflation
of all the colours of the world.
For men of science, perhaps, it holds much more worth."
Deflated, and yet with purpose aroused once more,
The blind man addressed a man
Who claimed that he knew what colours were.
The wizened old man cleared his throat,
And with emphasis, spoke-
"Why, the sky is but an instance of light."
Unfeeling, unfeeling was that bespectacled man,
For what was light to the blind?
The shades of the heavens above remained
As unattainable as before.
Until, one day, the blind man erroneously asked
A weathered seafarer the worth of the sky.
The sailor, with blasphemies a-many, muttered
"The sky is a godforsaken tumult of emotions, it is."
Intrigued, the man pondered
'What could an amalgamation of expressions mean?'
Curiosity wreathed a merry string of musings
That wove across his thoughts.
Inquisitiveness nagged the blind man, until
His wanderings led him to a humble philosopher,
Who, with shining eyes, spoke-
"Oh, the sky; 'Tis the face of the Almighty.
Waves of serene passion, of calm exuberance
coalesce within it.
It is a tempest; it is a storm of emotions.
It is inspiration embodied; it murmurs tales of victory.
It is painted with satisfaction; it beams with joyous contentment.
It is riddled with passion; it glows with fiery courage.
And, although it is streaked with despondence
Never does the sky simper of monotony,
For even the darkest nights are bejeweled with hope,
The gloomiest days optimistic behind the pall."
Understanding lit within the blind man, and he
With awed mind, realized
That somehow, somewhere, the hues of the sky
Were a similitude to the many emotions of life.