The Painter of Invisible Wings

Inspired by the poetry of Sergey Min'kov 2: http://stihi.ru/2012/12/30/6106)

My friend draws such strange, mysterious skies,
Unseen yet real, as if they're realized -
Birds leaping high with passion in their flight,
Then sinking down to vanish from my sight.

Each stroke beneath his trembling hand,
So clumsy, yet they seem to land.
Those crooked lines, they come alive,
And every bird has fire inside.

He paints the invisible wings I can't see,
The soul of a bird that escapes from me.
Though blind from birth, he's the one who knows -
A world of flight where my vision won't go.
Chasing the skies, but I'm tethered below,
While he holds the freedom my heart longs to know.

My pencil moves with careful, calculated art,
But what I draw has neither life nor heart.
A trained hand, a profession, a career,
Yet my sketches fall—so lifeless, unclear.

His world is dark, but brighter still,
His sightless mind bends art to will.
While I, the trained and seeing man,
Can't breathe the spark that lights his hand.

He paints the invisible wings I can't see,
The soul of a bird that escapes from me.
Though blind from birth, he's the one who knows -
A world of flight where my vision won't go.
Chasing the skies, but I'm tethered below,
While he holds the freedom my heart longs to know.

I stare for hours at birds in the air,
Rushing home from places far, elsewhere.
But their secrets, their grace - forever denied,
To my seeing eyes, still veiled, still blind.

He paints the invisible wings I can't see,
The soul of a bird that escapes from me.
Though blind from birth, he's the one who knows -
A world of flight where my vision won’t go.
Chasing the skies, but I'm tethered below,
While he holds the freedom my heart longs to know.

So here I sit, watching colors unfold,
His trembling lines a story untold.
How strange that a man without sight sees it all,
While I’m the blind one, behind my wall.

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You can listen to this song via the link:
https://disk.yandex.ru/d/rXfPKvwqpGQyOw