Wednesday, September 5, 2012

It is not faces sending me shadows
but trees which grow beyond
the meridian of my earthen oceans..
Ink, it is pure like a channel, built
for watering imaginations
where a nation floats in search
of its dead gone soul..
Ancient legends I search for where myths
and mathematics draw caricatures of past
in sporadic seasons
Who speaks there on podium
And who covers the clear eastern sky?
From the temples of east coast seas
a memoir I hold in hand for a season
which taught me
not to dream along with a shadow...

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