"What did you see today?" the mother asked her son.
"Nothing," he replied, ignoring
The brilliant crimson of the rising sun,
The vivacious green of the grass,
And the multitude of pastels painted by the flowers in their bloom.
"Did you hear anything?" she prompted further,
But still he shook his head, for his ears
Had been closed to the symphony of the morning robin,
To the cries of the children in the playground,
To the rustle of the wind in the boughs of the trees.
"Then," she continued, much concerned, "Did you feel anything?"
Still, his reply was no, although he had felt
The warmth of sunlight on his face,
The cool touch of rain upon his hand,
And the softness of auburn hair and ivory skin.
"Nothing much happened today." was his final word
Before leaving to shut himself in a cold grey room
Where he could go to sleep, and forget
The dreary world about him.