Oh wonderful eyes,
eyelashes that open
and shut the gates
of your mind.

There must be a song
written for you
lost in some old piece
of furniture in an ancient
house of Vienna.

You swam along the Seine
You flaunted across the
promenade of my Barcelona.

You dropped your tears
on some far-off vase
of the Assyrian civilization

You wore your flowered blouse
in the Himalayas.
You rode with the Amazons
in Brazil becoming their priceless
wise soothsayer.

Your gestures are written in
blood on the Book of Deeds.

You sided with the House
of Lancaster when they fought
against the House of York
in Leeds.

You sang my song in Peru,
battled against the British
pirates and retired later to
Corfu.

You embraced me when I felt
cold in Ottawa, then you nursed
my poor children in Managua.

I worshipped you and craved for
you, longing to take you to the
altar.

But you dismissed my
attention and picked up a sailor
heading for Malta.

Yet I still remember you,
the water of the ocean brings
back the colour of your eyes to
me when I desperately look
into it for a vagrant bottle
delivering your long-hoped message
to me.