There was a lady I once knew
who lived in a house all alone.
She never ventured far from there,
this place where she had grown.
She never called me by my name.
She only called me friend.
We'd talk a while and then were quiet.
But before the visit would end
she'd place her hand inside of mine
and hold it tenderly.
As I left I always felt
her touch I'd take with me.
I looked forward to these times
and knew that she did too.
When she died I cried a little
and was glad she never knew
that I had lost my vision
and was blind just like she.
I'm glad I never told her that.
She thought that I could see.
Life is give and take I know.
Nothing else matters much.
The part of her that stays with me
is her friendly touch.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem