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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476769" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>My Eyes</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My eyes have turned into clouds on the moon<br>too proud to cry <br>and my tongue is a leaf on the wind<br>and this may be my last voice, everything said <br>in a single word not god enough to begin me again, <br>but I’m grateful for the ride back into town, <br>and there’s only one river left<br>	that hasn’t poured the peasant <br>		out of my patrician poverty, <br>these refugee lines of evacuated stars<br>	that just made it out with their lives<br>		and a couple of planets they wouldn’t let go of.<br>And I’m down to the last firefly in my grave, <br>	a sea-witch a desert away from the coast<br>		who’s keeping an eye on my pulse <br>and my amateur heart is doing cosmetic surgery<br>with volunteer razorblades on my mind<br>		to undo the Red Cross facelift <br>they flew in to give my emergency passport<br>	the last time I asked the mirror<br>		to close the door on her way out<br>as she threw me the keys to her eyes <br>	and said anytime you need<br>		another oasis in an hourglass, <br>but she never really did understand <br>	the true nature of my calling<br>		but I gave her a gift certificate to rent-an-idol <br>for the shrine of her telephone anyway <br>	and thanked her for the designer powerline. <br>		Right number. Wrong answer. <br>And now the lotus-mouth of the nonreturnable silence<br>	that blooms in the shadow of my name<br>		comes to tell me the love-letters<br>I had to get off my chest like an avalanche <br>	the last time I did a guest-spot on terminal row<br>		have caught on like a shabby religion <br>in the mikes of the junkie prophets<br>	realigning their echoes in the valley below<br>		to all the compasses I’ve had to swallow <br>over the years to mean <br>	when I say I’m lost, I’m lost <br>		and not be seated like a celebrity direction.<br>And I hope, still dangerous enough to hope, <br>	lingering in the doorway of a homeless waterstar, <br>		a rootless tree, that it is my fault, <br>solely and wholly my fault <br>	that I’ve never mailed the moon’s reflection<br>		caught in the act <br>to the dark side of the mystery, <br>	 dropping a dime on the truth as payback <br>		for all the furious answers I’ve listened to<br>trying to tell me I could do a lot better for myself<br>like air-raid sirens in the sack, <br>	that I’m not enough of a user<br>to know what’s good for me, <br>	that I should be the kind of loser <br>		that claims his life’s a never-ending prize <br>then lames the victory with lies. <br>	And maybe I should have listened; <br>		and maybe it would have done me some good, <br>but who would have been there<br>	when God dropped in to bury her dead, <br>		and say she was sorry <br>for the kind of afterlife she’s led, <br>	and all the things she would have meant if she could; <br>		who would have been there<br> to put the crown back on her head<br>	and who would have been there to listen<br>		to the way her voice bled like cherry wood, <br>			and who would have understood?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476769" data-title="My Eyes de Patrick White" data-description="My eyes have turned into clouds on the moon
too proud to cry 
and my tongue is a leaf on the wind
and this may be my last voice, everything said 
in a single word not god enough to begin me again, 
but I’m grateful for the ride back into town, 
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