To Tell You Story of My Eyes
Can't tell how my eyes looked like
When I was born.
You need to ask someone
Who saw me born.
But then,
They are gone.
The first thing. I saw
Was a face,
Red and sweating,
In a smoke filled kitchen,
Blowing hard breath at
The hearth's damp firewoods.
My eyes wanted to become flames.
The last things I saw
Were
Your liberated curls, reaching out
To moist clouds
Amidst rain-soaked pine trees.
Traces of your nipples
On your wet shirt
Revealing from underneath.
Your skin's downy hairs, with bumpy feet,
Standing on your hands,
Drenched in dripping raindrops;
Your lips trembling like two birds in snow,
Dying for fire of a kiss.
And there,
I emptied my eyes into yours,
Along with
What I've seen in between,
To tell you stories,
Before my eyes become blind
In darkness of soil.
Copyright © Ibohal Kshetrimayum | Year Posted 2018
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