Through My Eyes

The crowd on the street

does not realize that I exist,

for the most part.

Those that do call me evil, unnatural.

They are ignorant of my plight;

my master named me Quasimodo—

half-formed.

I sigh and realize that, to them,

my malformations

must be hideous indeed.

However,

beneath this twisted body exists

a soul.

A soul of mercy,

of kindness,

of benevolence and compassion.

Men may call me an abomination,

a deformed monster.

This is the nature of mankind—

to recoil in mortal terror from

any creature not conforming

to the imagined perfection of the viewer,

or at least to his idea of perfection.

A few, perhaps, pity me

and consider me lonely, unloved.

But I have obtained a true love,

for my joy is in the silence,

the solitude,

the peace high above

Notre Dame.

There is music within every soul,

a melody only residing in one

body, never to be repeated.

Mine takes the form of the bells,

my other love. The bells of Notre Dame.

Dull and tarnished outside,

but from within resonates a song purer

than any ever heard in Paris.

I live.