I know, I know, there are those who call
Two horses in particular–
One is young and one is old
Though they think they’re brothers—
So that I, a blind man
Hear them like books read aloud.
No sentiment; no romance;
Each has his voice
Each wants a touch.
I run my fingers gently
Down their long foreheads
Lightly across their noses.
What are we waiting for?
What are we going to do about it
In the meantime?
Planet of the Blind 