The Courtesy of the Blind The poet reads his lines to the blind. He did not suspect it was so hard. His voice trembles. His hands shake. He senses that every sentence is put to the test of darkness. He must muddle through alone, without colours or lights. A treacherous endeavor for his poem's stars, dawns, rainbows, clouds, their neon lights, their moon, for the fish so silvery thus far beneath the water, and the hawk so high and quiet in the sky. He reads — since it's too late to stop now — about the boy in a yellow jacket in the green field, red rooftops that can be counted in the valley, the restless numbers on soccer players' shirts, and a naked stranger standing in the half-shut door. He'd like to skip — although it can't be done — all the saints on that cathedral ceiling, the parting wave from a train, the microscope lens, the ring casting a glow, the movie screens, the mirrors, and the photo albums. But great is the courtesy of the blind, great is their forbearance, their largesse. They listen, smile, and applaud. One of them even comes up with a book turned upside-down asking for an unseen autograph. Wislawa Szymborska

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