All Yews Are Made Of Eyes Poem by Christos R. Tsiailis

All yews are made of eyes,
every lumberjack can hear

a myriad thick eyes, deep.
Do call a yew to bend towards the voice
and the eyes shall come so near in space and time,
α devastating feeling what it will be.

Then the yew will call, in turn, for a kiss and a hug,
just ignore her they do,
but the never-resting eyes
shall become the masters of this touch,
every time,
gaining control,
they shimmy between the hiding intimate couple
to idly drift them apart,
of jealousy trips perhaps.

All yews are made of eyes
not as in,
“all news are told by mice”
nor as in,
“nice views are best on ice”

It’s the unanimous motto
of a four-million-year-old generation.
Ever since man the first axe has placed,
the pain has pushed the eyes yonder where,
eyes prevail over any effort of giving,
eyes rule.
yonder where,
yews are suppressed
to a role of cruel obedience.

Call the forest of the yews
to bend towards the voice
and watch half the world
glancing at its other half,
on a moment of semiotic Revelation.
One moment hence,
the woods unsuspicious straighten back,
with a lungful of pride
inside their never blinking eyes.

(Yews are made of eyes
and it’s no riddle,
If from this paper
you successfully remove every eye
to replace it with the denotations of the first prime number,
If from an external approach to reality
you cut all the yews to plant in their place,
what half the world is to the other half,

Or if
you just close your own eyes
and put your ears in charge mode for later on,
when you meet The One to read this again for you.)

(Nicosia,11-12-07)