i forced myself one day to remove those guilded gloves i had donned for so long and feel the perspiration gathering on my neck. i revealed fingers, exquisitely imperfect fingers that clambered ahead of me, serving as my sight when my eyes were wounded blind. i began to feel the ground for irregularities, taking note of upturned pebbles and scrapes on bark.
these hands in their searching have found dry leaves, birds' eggs and stones, have clutched at knives and blunted arrows, burying in hideaways the necessecities and discarding the superfluities.
they tell me that to know form one does not need to know light. to know depth one does not need the perception of sight.
i'll hold my hands out in front forever now, fingers spread wide to greet the twilight,
and save these weeping eyes for another life.