I held a glass eye’s fragile gleam
an avenue for sightless souls
and felt its silent judgment
reach my very marrow.
I knew that ancient thirst to find
what lies beyond all seeing,
where mortal vision falters
and even hope must bow.
Yet Spring, with all her tender breath,
rose round me—flowers whispering,
bees humming their patient hymns
a chorus born of memory.
And in that mingled scent
of love and death entwined,
a quiet truth rang clear:
they are the ones who wrote
the Score of Eternity.
:: 12.02.2025 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 