The Eye

Sighs swarm in;
Some muffled, some expressed.
So do unheard silences.
The eye came…
Bathed in blood and fluids.
Two whacks on its butt.
Swathed in ignorance,
A legacy of some unknown beauty.

Oh how he is instructed!
A pencil sketch
Of a battle scene.
Blood white, sweat triangular,
Almost invisible
To the infant eye.
As if war was the only living entity.
Life was a background.
Like some black blob
On a clean paper.
Throwing the paper
Into an abyss of unimportance.

Oh how it is instructed!
A bottomless well
Ornate with algal habitation
And framed pencil sketches.
Green silhouetted over red bricks…
So ostentatiously new
As if it was made
After the eye was born!
And yet, the ambience
Old…
As if the well espoused the eye
In his previous birth.

And the instructions echo…
The eye must learn
To see, retain
And do nothing more.

Other things would pose
A risk.
Of vulnerability,
Of adrenaline,
Of probable randomness,
Of its probable incompetence,
Of other eyes,
Of a random life.
But how could the eye know?
Would a cardinal rule not be broken?

One day, cynicism will die.
It will.
There, throw your passionate glance
On the sky.
You don’t need a listener.
The sky is sufficiently beautiful.

…

When he grew older,
I don’t quite remember when,
He looked at himself
In a pool of water.
Hazel branches leaping into
Perfectly spherical expanses.
Red rivers and grey silt
Strewn around.
Black adornments.
Skin, face, body.
An invisible, beautiful mind
Basking in the glory
Of such alarmingly precious endowments,
As if it had a premonition,
And knew, perfectly, how to react.

…

If u can, and will,
Speak of all that transpired.
Speak of life all this while.
Speak of progress.
He’s grown ears.
Maybe they’ll heed.