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Some things my eyes have seen remain in my eyes,
They're too heavy to be lowered unto the tongue,
And whenever it seems like they clutch my sight badly,
I wipe my eyes with my eyelids and let out a wet yell.
No one can hear when I make these silent yells,
Not even the doctor can diagnose this ailment,
It comes and goes like springtime and harvest,
And only my heart can tell how cold my blood has become.
Maybe one day these things will stop itching,
Maybe one day I'll gain access to overcome its vices,
Maybe when my eye loses her sight and lightness,
Maybe when I lie by the bones of my ancestors.
Nothing matters more than these things to me,
That I have the power to keep them within me,
That I don't get to wash my dirty linens by the city gates
Until the day I'll look around and today will be yesterday.
Shut in the eye
