EN
I was blind then, paying the guard’s fee,
To wait at the gate for the servant’s tray,
Like a gambler a blind man’s lot would see,
With debts on his face, in disarray.
Barefoot through seaweed, a blind man's way,
In a stack of hay, I spent the night.
At dawn, with graphite, he starts to gray,
He blindly scribbles 'neath the light.
There are poets who preach, so blindly and free,
Of love and rewards, for which they pray,
But never have courage, nor soul's degree,
To be a woman’s true partner, I say.
No saddle, no spurs, in a simple array,
Like a student in denim, love's heavy bite,
With no dowry to help or to stay,
He blindly scribbles 'neath the light.
Whatever is printed, is fate's decree,
Only the blind rise above the blight;
By the colophon, books are priced, you see,
But forms of the colophon differ in sight.
At Charles Bridge, he plays with all his might,
Blindly playing Beethoven, in a hollow way,
The one who drew circles, a child's delight,
He blindly scribbles 'neath the light.
When gray replaces the rainbow’s play,
And "God is a Woman" is the voice,
Let him without sin cast the stone and say:
"The other scribbles 'neath the light."
