My favourite part of a woman’s body … are her eyes. I love the ones that soften and slide down into mine. The ones that open to the mystery, to the not knowing. The ones that are eternal.
Some eyes are tight slits. How can the light enter through such narrowness? Some eyes burn holes in mine … and it hurts. And some are nowhere to be found …
The eyes I love look all around in fascination. They see the shapes in the clouds. They notice the tender squeeze of hands in the street. They drink inwards and bless outwards.
There is much to see. Take this water fountain, for example:
It sits on the Kraanlei in Ghent. Thousands pass by every day. I wonder how many stop to ponder.
What this means to you may be different than what it means to me. Cool. As long as it means something beyond our usual sight.
What if this simple sculpture speaks more eloquently than all the sacred books? What if the beauty herein migrates down our faces to our mouths? What if the world’s secrets lie in the flow of the springtime water?
What do my eyes see, you ask?
Birds … and horses … and dogs