A Boundless Bound
2016; Oxford University Press; Volume: 18; Issue: 3 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1093/litimag/imw026
ISSN1752-6566
Autores ResumoWhen I first met your mother, her eyes communed with mine.I eyed this understanding -gazing surpassed a sign.When I first met your mother, there were no words to speak.Our eyes looked strong in good fate, but tongues we had too weak.Silence was best our contact.I told her these by heart: "Fair points in girls who love eyes; my eyes are good God's art.I hope you'd love my vision -my soul's size, that's my art.In loving my earthy eyes, your vision gets no good start.Please love the way I see things -my vision tears lust apart.Children we'd have.They'd see us -in decent sight or insight?Our genes, our eyes, would cite them -blue ash in fleshly white.Our kids could learn God's pixels -the vision of chaste beholders.More worthy sharpest beauties pierce eyes of bare beholders.We'd sing them "Kilkelly, Ireland" but paint their choice in going.Contacting us by webcam, they'd care for our age in growing?"When I first met your mother, I said these with my eyes.I ruled in optic silence -back then, words in disguise.Darkness helps not the dark, but helps brightness show worth.Death may live or be stark -in realizing rebirth.Silence helps not the quiet, but helps dewdrops be heard.Bees splashed the liquid diet -salt teardrops tore sweet, bared.Peace is prone to disquiet, its flu from bird to bird.Your mother and I won't riot.Against our kids who cared.Little darling, watch my hazy sigh.This lullaby tells no lie.Sheer existing is our best work.Stencils deserve no cry.Our eyes are beauties, sorely, as one day we shall die.But vision -the way we see things -will stand against goodbye.Trout race by tide, in streams with mud.A child writes to the fish and reeds: "When ebbs reverse the stream of flood, the last fish in a school wins; leads.
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