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.