The eyes, they say, are windows to the soul,
And like them, can fall into disrepair-
The glass obscures and fails to play its role,
The sashes crack, the blinds and curtains tear,
And though such things are easily repaired,
Until the time that all the mending’s done,
One must contend with sight that is impaired,
Protected from the brightness of the sun.
For though the soul exists sans apeture
Allowing light to enter or to leave,
And is adulterated or as pure
As it would be to celebrate or grieve,
Through soul, eye unforgettable appears,
Through eye, the soul can purge itself of tears.