My Darling
i woke up this forenoon
as every thought of you walls around me
i turn to the side of the bed in search
the sweet wet bouquet of your essence
to me, you are that first lotus flower
the first that the creator behold and
echoed; it is beautiful, the creation
you saw the first sunrise of the earth
the first night of creation you experienced
and the colourless universe had seen it
even the silence of the heart you existed
my darling
i woke up this forenoon
the thought of has transcended the rooms
the bedroom is echoing loneliness
as i had hoped to be with you sooner
you who has become like lettuce to me
let these moments be memorable
as i dance on this floor of echoing loneliness
Perhaps Someday, I Will Find A Word To Mourn My Dead Ones' Death.
That of my father's disappearance in my hometown like the widow's last coins lost. Maybe I should coin out a word, or I am yet to learn a metaphor with which I would mourn him better after the many years of his name that danced in the East-wind silently as a forgotten song. Or maybe, I should birth for him a lexicon from where his voice, that which went silent in the year 2013, will come back and retell the stories of his life as a father. It is just like what looks as outside his, but what it is, is that which is called brotherly hatred in the care-given undertone and my father walked into the obliviousness of the world; no return as what we used to know him for. Or should I forget about her, she whom I find comfort in her eyes, her voice and her love for an offspring echoes; Janet. She was love in everything she did till that fateful morning when the day became darkened, eyes red as it rained rivers as if, if I cry oceans, maybe the dead will be brought back to life again. She laid down on that bed, pointing to these pictures of Christ Jesus on the walls healing the sick, and she whispered to me; "Son, know thy God and creator, for it is as a duty even as you are becoming a father after your siblings". It was as with a voice muffled in pain in an emptied room she murmured those words to my ears; "Son, go to the school, get your result and return so we could discuss the future". But I came back meeting with a white casket, people gathered in tears and they all echoed in unison, here comes her son who will decide where his mother's remains shall be laid to rest out of this troubled world. This was how I lost my parents when they were yet to tell me about the future, of how to become a man. And the ocean emptied on the rooftop of my grandfather without a remnant. Perhaps, someday I would find a metaphor to carve out their space in the tablet of time and memory.
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