The bird Strange having no colored wings,
Ecstatically flew far and wide,
Spacing out in his own paradise,
Not knowing he was born blind.
In a trice,
The sky changed,
Light-filled in delightfully,
Exposing the colors on his wings.
Heat pierced his skin,
Burning the sightless organ,
Intuition forced him to hide away,
From the guileful luminosity.
His wings colored on not colored?
The Moon and the Sun still debate,
And the sky asks,
“Does that matter?”