There are many veils to fog the view,
Many mists that came with myopia
to hug me at the brink of boyhood,
upend a limpid utopia.
To a lad with concaved countenance,
came a blaze following the smoke,
a kinsman dubbed as astigmia
to lend the next layer to the cloak.
In the deepening ink of eventide,
a nightfall awaits in hyperopia —
It has already begun to occlude
the opaline orbs of the corneas.
But it pours more than it rains,
the haloed rainbows of headlights
on the roads hiss past with omens
of impending charcoal nights.
What is the aroma of darkness I ask,
What is the song of a burning sun?
Is it the world in a nebulous mask,
Or a cocoon the eyes can’t shun?