A Fleeting Introspection

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.