Friday, August 3, 2007

My poems are soft green

My poems are also flaming crimson

My poems are like a wounded fawn

seeking refuge in the forest.





Guantaramera.



When everything stops, music moves. Music shall swirl and splash and stop by me. And wash me out. And poetry, poems, ballads shall come with her. This is how I shall grow old, bit by bit, breath by breath.



Puff the magic dragon shall live. Forever. In that attic of metamorphosis. That small room, four walls, nothing more save a basketful of imagination, a handful of whims and fascination that grew and grew, fabricated by story book anne and glad games played by pollyanna. They were there, of course.



Little by little, we grew up. Together at times. Amidst strawberry fields, under blood red sky, with promises of meeting again once upon a time in future amidst a world swirling like there was no tomorrow.

Glad we met again. :)

1 comment:

The none said...

You had joy, you had fun, you had seasons in the sun????? :-)