A blind man sits alone in the glow of a single pale purple lantern. The light falls across his face, which seems hollowed out by dreams, and the scene feels observed with quiet tenderness. He is mending a flute, an image that suggests music is his remaining way of reaching the world. The comparison to oak-trees in the wind makes the world around him feel full of movement he cannot see, endlessly weaving sighs into something like a poem meant for sight. His own sighs rise as he works, as if the flute’s shadow rests heavily on his heart and whispers things his dead eyes cannot take in. The mood is hushed, mournful, and strange—not pitying, but reverent. It imagines blindness not as emptiness, but as a different kind of listening, full of unspoken meanings and shadowy music.
Blind — Summary
Blinder than oak-trees in the wind Endlessly weaving sighs into a poem To sight, He sits, the light of one pale purple lantern Seeping into his dream-hollowed face, Like floating, transparent words Pale with unuttered meanings. He mends a flute and sighs as though Its shadow leaned heavily upon his heart And told him things his dead eyes could not grasp.