Into the labyrinth, let us recall
The old blind poet’s death day.
We can’t guess when the poet
Was born in imagined library,
Before blindness set on books.
A reader had a recent birthday
Surely , may have many more
If he wakes from his blindness
To live memories of birthdays,
When kids made funny sounds
On birthday’s toffees he gave
And tongues would hit roofs
Of the kid mouths that knew
No blind old poets in mazes.
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