There is something called an eye...indeed there is, and.....
An Eye must always be BLUE....not black, because then it will see only the night and its taciturn beauties of water shining, darkened, dampened earth and leaves floating like carcasses on a bloodless stream....bloodied by a presence that no longer is one, actually....
not brown, because there is too much of raw earthiness in that....too much of pain, too much sorrow-bearing quite unlike bearing-a-child...and too much of the seen, the manifest bides its time in it...waiting only for the day in the night and the night in the day's raw light.
not red.....because then one would be an icon in a catacomb....where the Saviour of Palestine and the Messiah of Rome is portrayed as a lamb awash in its own blood....red is when you see the penultimate thrust of Time is betrayed in between the climax and the strength. Red is fire doused by a familiar-to-the-eye coloured amphora of wine-coloured sand.
Time is the all-powerful mendicant who begs his way into the cycle we imagine we create and then leaves us destitute with just a closely calculated gust of breeze that the arms of Time conjure-whip-up.
And not even green, not because there is envy in the heart of the neighbour....or the lover who sweeps your lips with a sweep of his or her lips...acting together in unison as the ubiquitous hands at a desk full of work leftover....as those of Sankhini Bhattacharjee born of the Seed of the confused planet, Shukra....or those of Krishnashish Chandra who cannot decide whether he should say to that virtual Man what he wants to say in appreciating that Poet's poesy.
and not even anything else....only BLUE...because the sky is not blue. It only appears to be blue. We, you and I see that the sky is blue. But then a man and a woman and a man in a Kaal Boishaakhi in the heart of Bangla will see the dark, dank heart of the sky which is not blue.
A traveller in an oasis in the desert at evening-song-sung-sadly-away-from-home will see the sky as red as fire that is far away, too far away to be stolen and then await punishment for stealing it, all the while one's liver and intestines shaking.
And even brown sometimes...when the sun is no longer interested in warming the earth. And green as green can be when we imagine lost sea routes in the sky....all said and done, the sky is not blue....nothing is....not even the ocean....nor the flowing rivers of Galatea....and Thetis.
All eyes therefore need to be BLUE.
An Eye must always be BLUE....not black, because then it will see only the night and its taciturn beauties of water shining, darkened, dampened earth and leaves floating like carcasses on a bloodless stream....bloodied by a presence that no longer is one, actually....
not brown, because there is too much of raw earthiness in that....too much of pain, too much sorrow-bearing quite unlike bearing-a-child...and too much of the seen, the manifest bides its time in it...waiting only for the day in the night and the night in the day's raw light.
not red.....because then one would be an icon in a catacomb....where the Saviour of Palestine and the Messiah of Rome is portrayed as a lamb awash in its own blood....red is when you see the penultimate thrust of Time is betrayed in between the climax and the strength. Red is fire doused by a familiar-to-the-eye coloured amphora of wine-coloured sand.
Time is the all-powerful mendicant who begs his way into the cycle we imagine we create and then leaves us destitute with just a closely calculated gust of breeze that the arms of Time conjure-whip-up.
And not even green, not because there is envy in the heart of the neighbour....or the lover who sweeps your lips with a sweep of his or her lips...acting together in unison as the ubiquitous hands at a desk full of work leftover....as those of Sankhini Bhattacharjee born of the Seed of the confused planet, Shukra....or those of Krishnashish Chandra who cannot decide whether he should say to that virtual Man what he wants to say in appreciating that Poet's poesy.
and not even anything else....only BLUE...because the sky is not blue. It only appears to be blue. We, you and I see that the sky is blue. But then a man and a woman and a man in a Kaal Boishaakhi in the heart of Bangla will see the dark, dank heart of the sky which is not blue.
A traveller in an oasis in the desert at evening-song-sung-sadly-away-from-home will see the sky as red as fire that is far away, too far away to be stolen and then await punishment for stealing it, all the while one's liver and intestines shaking.
And even brown sometimes...when the sun is no longer interested in warming the earth. And green as green can be when we imagine lost sea routes in the sky....all said and done, the sky is not blue....nothing is....not even the ocean....nor the flowing rivers of Galatea....and Thetis.
All eyes therefore need to be BLUE.
