If I paste my eyes on your hands,
Will you let them peek
into the spring garden you
built over the mountain?
Will you let them see
the poems you write,
only to feed the little match boxes?
Will you hold them
close to your heart to
protect them from summer wind?
Will you guide them through
your insane inferno
where shadows dance and
moonbeams are caught?
Will you make them understand
what a blind spot is,
when the prayer is chanted
by the predator?
Will you let them witness
the birth of a dawn,
when an unnamed insect
decides to die out of curiosity?
Will you share with them
the whispers of martyr god,
while the wind carries
the secrets of longevity?
Will you keep them out of a battle
between a shegnai and a gun,
where number of pyres
is the ultimate power?
Will you let them weave
safe sentences in an abstract pattern,
so that no body will be
displeased of their courage?
Will you lock them in your
post orgasmic gaze,
while you recollect the laws of
gravity, trying not to scare yourself?
Will you teach them to
play skipping rope, so that
they won't be afraid of
snakes and suicides?
Will you keep them away
from a well rehearsed con man,
who may find them
bleak and funny?
Will you gift them an umbrella
when its drenching rain and
a soft tissue paper when
they are raining?
Will you forgive them
for the sins they are concealing,
afraid of the loss of love
gliding through your fingers?
Will you sing for them
in rhyming words, promising
not to abandon them
in the middle of a sea storm?
Will you shelter them from
elastic hearts and plastic teeths,
wearing hoods of diamond hopes
in a seculded parking space?
Will you teach them
the trick to breathe underwater,
when the rage of monsoon
stings the pride of fire?
Will you make them
understand your solitude,
intoxicating enough to
give them a foolish courage.
Will you grip them, lightly,
without ripping their dreams
of keeping your smile
as an evocation?
Will you accept
their grateful defeat,
for they know
how I melt in
your messy embrace?
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