A poem wrote by a young lady. The boy who held his hand They gouged them out, At first I could not bear to look: Empty and raw and cruel. I would not look: The shock of emptiness, Knowing that he would not see. I watched the shaven head bowed low Rocking with the rhythm of the grindstone. Round. Round. Round. I watched the needless shackles: Heavy and hard, Biting the flesh that needs no binding. Now It does not matter that his eyes are gone: I am his eyes, He sees through me. He has to see through me, there is no other way. And I have wept the tears he cannot weep, For all those careless years. And I have learned to love this broken man, While he has learned at last to fear his God. So I am not afraid to die: Happy to be his eyes this one last time. Taking his hand, Leading with practiced care, Step by guided step Into the place where he can pray, ‘Lord, O Sovereign Lord.’ And as the pillars fall, I cry ‘Amen.’