Your Eyes by Juan Goico Alíx

From Google Image Search
From Google Image Search

Gentle Eyes with the tranquility of still pools, with the pleasing stillness of lakes; eyes full of love deep and luxuriant, while full of pain are a balm, while bestowing anguish, bestow delight.

Deep eyes like dead seas, which impart life when open, and impart death when closed; eyes full of lament, eyes immense; black shining diamonds suspended over large purple petals.

Eyes residing in the pale-blue clouds of the setting sun, accustomed to gazing at landscapes, they are full of time and of distance; divine eyes enlightened, that in remembrance vaguely look at me as if I were wrapped by a fragrance.

Eyes undecipherable of the arcane, divine expressions of what is human, opened pharaonic vaults, dark eyes which have wept so much, under the night, like under a mantle, all sweet hope extinguished.

Eyes from a long-suffering heart, a fugitive of oblivion which hoists herself repeatedly to cry, two nights of the dead, dreadful, two mysterious tombs forgotten, suns blackened of their illumination.

Eyes undaunted from their purpose that have illuminated my path, evoking my youth to flower; beautiful dark eyes enigmatic that from a distance look at me, ecstatic, as if lauding something holy.

Beautiful eyes, somber, void of hate, void of love, before mine, containing the mystery of the heavenly luminaries; never had I seen them more deep nor more beautiful, beneath a black forest of hair. Beneath an outcropping of pale alabaster, your crest.

I wish to own them like the night owns its bright stars, like the rivers own their fragile mirrors. I wish to kiss them, divine eyes which I admired that blue afternoon, when they were before mine.

-translated 2014.03.28


My Verse by Juan Goico Alíx

Small Tropical Bird from Phuket Thailand

Takes flight my musing, made an exhausted bird, to perch upon your hand, like upon a flower; its universe is your life, its sun your gaze, its foliage your head, your sadness its pain. Its chirping is your accent, your shoulders its mountains, your arms its pathways, its night your slumber, your lips are its fruit, its shade your eye lashes. A secret is your soul which it has not been able to hear.

It lives of your fragrances, for you are its Universe, and in your wanderings it flies by pure chance; its song carries the winged rhythm of my verse and its crystal-clear day is your ingenious rousing. Your hands are its roses, your dreams its madness, its delight your beauty, your youth is its April, your kisses are its breezes, your back its prairie, your hollowed hands its ivory cage.

Give it to drink your tears during your nocturnal hours.

Give it to drink your laughter during your precious days.

For you own your nights, and you own your dawning, like you own your youth and melancholy.

Run your hand over its plumage, make for it a nest made of roses, joining the two together; hands like cotton swaths, tender as bandaging, cruel for the “wait”, sad for the “farewell”

Takes flight my musing, like an exhausted bird, to perch upon your hands, like upon a flower; your life is its Universe, your gaze its sun, your soul its impossible, its youth your love

Translated 2014.03.26 


Blood Orange

I’m avoiding crying though I am not through the mourning. The last time I cried I thought that my retinas were going to detach from the great pressure. The edges of my eyelids went from a Pink Grapefruit pink, to a Blood Orange red, and I have been having some continuing irritation, which has deterred me from the luxury of emphatic sadness.

How unbecoming, that a man would seek refuge in solitude, that he may bitterly weep, when there are important things that need tending. A more sympathetic figure is the woman that would fill her need to retreat in this hard and mechanized world.

I do so because there are two things that I love, but to love correctly and completely I must hate one of them and I cannot. Therefore my love is incomplete for both. Should I hate the lesser of the two, for one is human and one is eternal, the lesser would thrive in time. But there is the rub. The time. I would like to say, “I can wait”, or “I will wait”, that these sentiments be from my heart. From within going out. But they are from without going in. My heart says I cannot wait.

Therefore, even though the time will pass just the same, and I will remain alive just the same. I will have endured nothing at all, and will be remembered by the resignation on my rehearsed smile. This is not the voice of hope, that has an unconquerable advocate. I realize. I can only pray that the words may be made to stretch so that they may accommodate my divided heart: “Happy are those that weep”



I do not take lightly what was placed

Before me that day

I asked to be your better brother

I asked to be your fondest friend

And I was placed as a protector

While you were engaged in a Holy work together

Immersed in intimate conversation

Without interruption 

The angels were assigned a different imperative that day

And God had his forefinger on my jugular

To see if I really wanted it that way