Within the eye, a wondrous sphere, A lens resides, both bright and clear. It shifts its shape, it bends its light, To bring the world to perfect sight.
When near we look, the muscles strain, The ciliary fibers, tight, maintain. The lens grows thick, convex with might, Refracting rays to render bright.
But when afar our gaze does stray, The fibers slacken, give way, The lens grows flat, a softer hue, Adjusting focus, sharp and true.
The zonules, threads of tensile grace, Bind muscle, lens, in balanced space. They slack and pull with every view, A symphony of motion, true.
Yet time intrudes, its heavy hand, And steals the lens's supple span. Presbyopia clouds the eye, Where once was focus, blurs now lie.
Some suffer strain, a lacking force, Accommodation falters, coarse. While others spasm, tightly bound, And distance vision won’t rebound.
Corrective lenses, crafted fine, Restore the balance, realign. Through science, art, and human care, The gift of sight is once more fair.
Oh, marvel of the human frame, The eye, its dance, a cosmic game. To focus near, to wander far, It mirrors life, a guiding star.
