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If you give me your eyes
If you give me your eyes,
you may become blind, but i swear I'll take care of them.
I'll wash them every night from filth and grief
I'll keep them from
agony and salty tears.
If you give me your eyes,
You may not see again
But i assure you that it is a little thing to lose
I'll hang them on God's tree, and let them watch
All the directions of heaven and hell
And they'll dig under the sacred tree with
sense of humor and curiosity
They'll figure out how to peek into the chest of the truth,
without pretending that you are a learned man.
If you give me them, I'll take your eyes for a walk, we'll be stoned and delighted through our walking between God's arms
We'll laugh from the
bottom of our hearts,
we'll measure the distance between the awesomeness and beauty.
If you lend me them, I won't give them back to you, how dare I?
While we're on our way to put the seeds of tomorrow.
If you give me your own eyes, I'll let you see my paradise where all the scientists set by their inventions looking in amaze, wondering how small their eyes to the eye of God.
Where they all thinking is that eye is the sun? Is that eye is the moon?
If you give me your eyes,
I'll knead them like the pugs, and I'll gather their ashes wrapped it in a precious kerchief,
if you do that, I'll free your eyes from the darkness slavery,
and let on
they plunge in the brightness of the horizon.
Against The Broiling Sun
I stood on my tippy toes
Near enough to touch
My grandfather on his
Laughing as if his whole life
Is a joke.
Everyone knows that he could
Shorten his long life through laughter.
My mother on the ground
Peeling the beans
For preparing its soup.
Although she could use her grief
Instead of the salt
She insists to pretend that
There is a great difference
In each taste.
My back against the broiling sun
It's flames hurt me
Whipping my flesh.
Corn husks dolls tucked
Between my legs
We sell the joy
To the needy children.
On my toes,
I watched my family
Gathering the pebbles
To make a house.
The flower which had grown
Between my lips
Create a magical ladder
To the sky.
We murmur verses
Through our flight
From corner to corner.
We have no walls
Between us and God
My mother used to
Her tender eyes
Reflect how the
Working under the sun
Each doll was given to a child
Plant a star
In our darkness.
When I met the devil
I met the devil.
He was in his wheelchair
the shelves of my library.
I kept silent
to watch him.
He hadn't tusks
Only a powerful motivator
to absorb my diary.
I heard him
Repeating my words,
The first line
of my diary
Made him sing
With cheeks flushed red.
The second line
To fly in craze.
I kept watching him
On my knees
If he paid attention
He would hear
Of my bones.
The devil ate
Until his eyes
Caught my last
He sank in
It was my first time
to see a Devil
My diary in awe
His strong tone
I still remember
His looking was
when he witnessed
my written griefs.
I also recall how
the salt rained down
from his eyes
I met the devil once
I still wonder
Do our petty diaries
Have that ability
To turn the devil's
Hair from black
Prayers on our house roof
We were boiling bananas on the roof of our house.
My mother's laughter clutched the heart of my ears.
She was gossiping with her neighbor, knocking softly on my body with her delicious words.
Although, my mother doesn't know how to write, her telling is as sweet as poetry.
I love to watch their tongues playing music that called a conversation.
My mother and her neighbor were working on their knees; their chests pump gladly, their noses colored by the smoke.
For us boiling bananas
We murmurs with verses, we sing with faces up
We live in our own paradise, making art through peeling bananas, slicing it into pieces of heaven, boiling it on the fire, hoping for a kiss on a cheek from a bird,
or an old hymn bathe the exhausted soul.
I was sitting on my mother's hip, my special view that overlooking the cavern of God
There, where i could spy on the kingdom of mercy
I saw god cooking
for children like me
Just like me and the only difference is that
They are dead, but i am still alive
Every time we boiling bananas, i watched god preparing the dinner table for the dead children
He was feeding them sweetly
I felt the warmth of their soup, i touched the magic of their setting
Every time I ran to my mother, crying in childish tone saying that i saw god cooking for dead children.
My mother smiles and completes her talking with her neighbor
I yelled at my mother, but she smiled again.
Then, I kept watching and spying
God was making delicious food upstairs, one hundred children on their knees look forward tasting the yummy dishes.
I was waving to them, smiling at them,
but they didn't notice me at all.
They were gathered around the God, in longing, in awe,
I have always wondered if god boiling bananas for the children like our mothers do for us.
And i imagined many times how delicious is it.
The smell of our rooftop carries kind of hope.
Under my little bare feet, bananas peel and two bowls, one for us and the other one for the hungers people in our neighborhood.
It became a habit since we all heard of
One hundred child died of hunger, one hundred innocent soul vanished, disappeared, all the my folk said that, but i swear to them, i swear to my mother that i saw god cooking for the dead children , but they said nothing, just kept smiling at me.
I am a published poet. My poetry collection "For Those Who Don’t Know Chocolate" that published in February 2019 by Poetic Justice Books & Arts, And my children book The Cocoa Boy and Other Stories published in February 2020. My poems have appeared in several prints and online publications including South Florida Poetry, Birmingham Arts Journal, Hawaii Review, The Meniscus, the Chiron review, the Hunger, Writers Resist, Right Now and several publications.