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luis aragon;
your eyes so deep I stoop to drink I’ve seen
all the bright suns assemble here to preen
seen the despairing all plunge in to die
your eyes so deep I lose my memory
in the birds’ shade it’s raging ocean tempest
then see the weather’s fine your eyes are changed as
summer carves clouds to apron-size for angels
sky’s never bluer than above the harvest
what if the winds dispel the blues of heaven
your eyes outshine it when a teardrop glitters
your eyes the clear skies’ envy after showers
never so blue the glass as when it’s broken
o the wet brightness seven-sorrowed mother
the colour-prism pierced by seven broadswords
the day stabs deep that stabs among the mourners
the shot-silk iris bluer for the graveside
your eyes in sorrow pierce the pair of holes
the magi re-enact their miracle
all three of them observed with pounding pulse
the cloak of Mary hanging in the stall
words may-time saw a pair of lips suffice
for all the cries of woe and all the songs
not enough heaven for the starry throngs
they need your eyes your eyes’ twin mysteries
the child with pretty pictures on the brain
reveals his own affairs more cautiously
you make big eyes perhaps it means you lie
exotic blooms laid open by the rain
do they hide lightning in the lavenders
where insects shaft their violent amours
I’m tangled in the net of shooting stars
a sailor dead at sea when august flares
your eyes so deep I stoop to drink I’ve seen
all the bright suns assemble here to preen
seen the despairing all plunge in to die
your eyes so deep I lose my memory
in the birds’ shade it’s raging ocean tempest
then see the weather’s fine your eyes are changed as
summer carves clouds to apron-size for angels
sky’s never bluer than above the harvest
what if the winds dispel the blues of heaven
your eyes outshine it when a teardrop glitters
your eyes the clear skies’ envy after showers
never so blue the glass as when it’s broken
o the wet brightness seven-sorrowed mother
the colour-prism pierced by seven broadswords
the day stabs deep that stabs among the mourners
the shot-silk iris bluer for the graveside
your eyes in sorrow pierce the pair of holes
the magi re-enact their miracle
all three of them observed with pounding pulse
the cloak of Mary hanging in the stall
words may-time saw a pair of lips suffice
for all the cries of woe and all the songs
not enough heaven for the starry throngs
they need your eyes your eyes’ twin mysteries
the child with pretty pictures on the brain
reveals his own affairs more cautiously
you make big eyes perhaps it means you lie
exotic blooms laid open by the rain
do they hide lightning in the lavenders
where insects shaft their violent amours
I’m tangled in the net of shooting stars
a sailor dead at sea when august flares
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