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| Taken by me from where I am but during the past summer |
Like the
brush-like stripped sycamore partly clothed by the verdure of muffling ivy
A lonely
figure with raw nerves stares at the same tree that sighs, ‘Free me!’
Oh, yes, it
is mere farce to find thee thus in the muffling care.
The ghost
like figure hastens to respond back, ‘Thou hath opened my eyes!’
Can it be
the shadow cast by the unseen, the unseen in its two words?
So from the
scintillating selfie after selfie in such disguise of joviality.
Yes, I can
now see the hues, nuances—more than mere shadows.
And a frozen
like sculpture thy piercing selfie’s steady frigid stare speaks,
‘Can’t thou
see how pathetic thou art?’ The ghostly figure guffawed and wailed,
‘Thou poke
right there to jolt me into a mad cemetery dance. Here I go.
But can’t
thou see it’s, too, the shadow cast by the unseen?
For how long
my complexity could be dictated by the makeshift system now?’
As the
shredded golden-dark clouds at the far horizon turn into Chinese art pattern,
As the lonely
bright star adorns the vast turquoise void amid collapsing twilight,
As the spiky
top of the brush-like sycamore points me into the great void,
I, with the help
of the great book I have read, see for the first time thy greatness.
I mean thou,
the great turquoise void, our canopy taken for granted.
I mean thou as
thou art not mere shadow. Thou art thyself.
And thus I see
the lonely full moon as the one like myself so dull today.
