It was said that sparkling eyes were but tales of a delirious past.
His eyes were the early autumn kissed mossy rocks at the bottom of a crystalline rivulet whose stream carried the will into the deep, where the sun seldom shone, yet the core burnt with an ancient glow.
Her eyes, withered by loss, peeked into the water and turnt to liquid gold —a sun reborn amongst the fathomless and the numb.
“Burn, precious heart, for thou wert born to shine!” they sang in hazel duet, bodies entwined. “We’ll visit the sacred fire upon the bleak of the land; we’ll remind of the empires buried in the eternal mind!”
It was said that sparkling eyes were but tales of yore, weaved by sicklings who knew not life’s cruelty galore, yet there they were — defying the fate uttered that many a time had tainted the world.