Cover that bosom that I must not see: Souls are wounded by such things.

Les petits esprits sont blessés des plus petites choses

Objects are concealed from our view, not so much because they are out of the course of our visual ray as because we do not bring our minds and eyes to bear on them, for there is no power to see in the eye itself, any more than in any other jelly.

Look, and it can't be seen.
Listen, and it can't be heard.
Reach, and it can't be grasped.

For men have dulled their eyes with sin,
And dimmed the light of heaven with doubt,
And built their temple-walls to shut thee in,
And framed their iron creeds to shut thee out.

The hurt you carry darkens what you see.

For surely it is not the eyes that are blind, but blinded are the hearts which are in the breasts

Le péché, c'est ce qui obscurcit l'âme.

I can't let them see my doubts, or the wounds they've inflicted on me.

Pain, too, comes from depths that cannot be revealed. We do not know whether those depths are in ourselves or elsewhere, in a graveyard, in a scarcely dug grave, only recently inhabited by withered flesh. This truth, which is banal enough, unravels time and the face, holds up a mirror to me in which I cannot see myself without being overcome by a profound sadness that undermines one's whole being. The mirror has become the route through which my body reaches that state, in which it is crushed into the ground, digs a temporary grave, and allows itself to be drawn by the living roots that swarm beneath the stones. It is flattened beneath the weight of that immense sadness which few people have the privilege of knowing. So I avoid mirrors.

Colors blind the eye
Sounds deafen the ear.
Flavors numb the taste.
Thoughts weaken the mind.
Desires wither the heart.

And what they don't see,
Is what is killing me.
It's blessing and a curse
That love is blind.