There’s beauty in the world, no need to look too hard Even in a game of greed, she smiles at the queen on a card And all the parents watching, smile at the thought That the grass seems to be better than the presents the child got They laugh at how little it takes to make her smile Because they haven’t had the magic, not for awhile It disappeared when all children’s tales were proved false And shines for a second with the rapid beating of pulse When love sinks in, the magic flickers in their hearts But it’s nothing like the flame inside a child, a real work of art.
What is it that a blind man sees? Without his sight, does it make him free? After all how can he get hurt if he can’t witness pain, How can he love if he can’t see what love contains? Fingers upon curvatures, a choice to see what’s bad Not knowing the difference between what he has and what he had Because if he can’t see what’s come and what’s left him behind Then he doesn’t know a piece is missing, not wishing to rewind But if he can’t see the bad, how will he be secure? Read a face with fingertips but someone’s heart he can’t be sure? So what exactly does a blind man see? Blots of colour, or a smudge spree? Does he see any outlines, or nothing at all? Discoloured pupils, running into walls. But when blinded, all other senses increase so much more So I guess he sees much better than he ever did before