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- Jan 13, 2005
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- 39
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Just wanted to share this poem, I wrote it not too long ago, but it's the poetic version of a short story I wrote in Spanish, so it was doubly translated, in a way... Hope you enjoy, and understand. 
:lol: :wink:
The eyes
Those eyes,
Her eyes.
They torment me
As their love
Torments me still.
She, my beloved,
Destroyed me.
She, my beloved,
Consumed my life
And spat it out.
And so her soul,
--and his!—
Are doomed to hell.
Quietly, I wander the ages,
Thanks to her and her
Hurtful
Eyes.
Quietly, those eyes stared at me.
Those brown, beautiful eyes.
Those thoughtful, hateful eyes.
Those deafening, cunning eyes.
And so I feast, forever,
Upon these colors, of which
I was exempt from.
Excluded, hated.
***
It was Athens, it was so long ago.
I was me, my mother, the multitude.
They sang, of course, their cacophonous
Melody of shouts and peddling.
Meddling.
And like all songs, there came an end.
O, not a real end, no.
My mother, grasping my hand,
Guiding my unseeing eyes,
Lost her grip…
The operatic cries of my
Mother rose over the multitude, and
The streams –the tears—rushed from my eyes.
Life itself would surely come to an end.
No one saw.
No one cried.
Save for my mother.
And those eyes, her eyes.
Were not there.
I was lost, as lost I’d been my whole life.
I had not my mother, only
The brutal forces
Of Athens.
Until –the hand—
A man, or a woman, touched my shoulder
--cold—
And a brilliance, as could be expected,
Erupted from my soul.
I could see.
Simple, joyful.
I, the blind farmer, could see.
And, o, were the gods
Visible to me.
Woe to me, and –curse him!—
I love that hand.
My first vision, a dream perhaps,
Perhaps not,
Her eyes.
That glare, that snare,
Such love, such emptiness.
“To love is impossible
For me.” They said. They wept.
Only for a second, of course,
Did I have my vision.
Those eyes –soulless—stared
At me. A single tear fell.
I saw my beloved, her tunic.
And the frail, triangular head
Of her companion, who hissed
In mockery towards me.
Its accursed tongue
Slithering on the air,
Tainting it.
I hated it, I sought to destroy it.
But no.
I was immobile –forever—
I was of soul.
I watched her drift,
Unbeknownst to the citizens.
And now a new marvel was there to be
Beheld.
I could not hear.
I could not feel.
I could not taste.
I could not smell.
I cannot…
I cannot…
I cannot…
I can see.
I can see!
That magnificent word,
Beautiful,
Is finally available to me.
Yet I cannot utter it.
I cannot hear it.
I cannot touch it.
All because of her.
And her undying eyes.
And now my undying eyes
Are to curse and bedazzle.
To drift, as my love once drifted,
In between the multitude,
Only to pass from lip to lip.
From memory to memory.
And with this hope, after watching my life end,
After being the Observer,
To die.
To cease.
To cry
Tears of rock.
:lol: :wink: The eyes
Those eyes,
Her eyes.
They torment me
As their love
Torments me still.
She, my beloved,
Destroyed me.
She, my beloved,
Consumed my life
And spat it out.
And so her soul,
--and his!—
Are doomed to hell.
Quietly, I wander the ages,
Thanks to her and her
Hurtful
Eyes.
Quietly, those eyes stared at me.
Those brown, beautiful eyes.
Those thoughtful, hateful eyes.
Those deafening, cunning eyes.
And so I feast, forever,
Upon these colors, of which
I was exempt from.
Excluded, hated.
***
It was Athens, it was so long ago.
I was me, my mother, the multitude.
They sang, of course, their cacophonous
Melody of shouts and peddling.
Meddling.
And like all songs, there came an end.
O, not a real end, no.
My mother, grasping my hand,
Guiding my unseeing eyes,
Lost her grip…
The operatic cries of my
Mother rose over the multitude, and
The streams –the tears—rushed from my eyes.
Life itself would surely come to an end.
No one saw.
No one cried.
Save for my mother.
And those eyes, her eyes.
Were not there.
I was lost, as lost I’d been my whole life.
I had not my mother, only
The brutal forces
Of Athens.
Until –the hand—
A man, or a woman, touched my shoulder
--cold—
And a brilliance, as could be expected,
Erupted from my soul.
I could see.
Simple, joyful.
I, the blind farmer, could see.
And, o, were the gods
Visible to me.
Woe to me, and –curse him!—
I love that hand.
My first vision, a dream perhaps,
Perhaps not,
Her eyes.
That glare, that snare,
Such love, such emptiness.
“To love is impossible
For me.” They said. They wept.
Only for a second, of course,
Did I have my vision.
Those eyes –soulless—stared
At me. A single tear fell.
I saw my beloved, her tunic.
And the frail, triangular head
Of her companion, who hissed
In mockery towards me.
Its accursed tongue
Slithering on the air,
Tainting it.
I hated it, I sought to destroy it.
But no.
I was immobile –forever—
I was of soul.
I watched her drift,
Unbeknownst to the citizens.
And now a new marvel was there to be
Beheld.
I could not hear.
I could not feel.
I could not taste.
I could not smell.
I cannot…
I cannot…
I cannot…
I can see.
I can see!
That magnificent word,
Beautiful,
Is finally available to me.
Yet I cannot utter it.
I cannot hear it.
I cannot touch it.
All because of her.
And her undying eyes.
And now my undying eyes
Are to curse and bedazzle.
To drift, as my love once drifted,
In between the multitude,
Only to pass from lip to lip.
From memory to memory.
And with this hope, after watching my life end,
After being the Observer,
To die.
To cease.
To cry
Tears of rock.
You jest. 
