I do not know how to swim, yet the sea calls to me. I sit on the shore for days and years and let it watch me. It is peaceful. There is calm and there is chaos, there is violence and serenity, there is perfection and coarseness, there are pieces of paper that float on its coloured waters. They are sometimes blank, sometimes with a word, sometimes pictures, often they hold more wisdom than all the books in the world, sometimes they are the little boy's toys, sometimes they find their way here.
When the clocks tick on,
Dripping water turning
Into tidal storms,
Falling raindrops
Gurgling into gutters,
Dragging the rivers of loneliness
You caressed for so long,
When those blunted claws
Scavenge through memories
You stored in the corners of matchboxes from long ago,
Who then will come?
Who then will ask
For your dreams again?
posted by peter pan at 2:10 pm
0 comments
What of Bijoychal, then?
What will he wear?
What of Bijoychal,
The name stumbling of my frame?
What of Bijoychal,
Whose father is a servant?
What of Bijoychal,
A name I fear to say?
What will he wear,
Bijoychal?
When I invite him to my day?
What will he wear,
When his mother isn't there to comb his hair?
What will Bijoychal say,
When the others ask him to speak?
Will his colours stand up and say
Bijoychal is dressed in my old clothes?
What will Bijoychal do,
At a rich boy's party today?
posted by peter pan at 2:08 pm
0 comments
