new fashion in town

although i am not professionally a fashion designer, who can share clever opinion on whether green and purple are match with each other, or which one of them should be a little bit brigther, lately i can judge that houses dress themselves to fit this season's colours. and they look better.

also the bikes. they put make up in vibrant shapes and colours and looked much merrier. perhaps soon the other permanent residents of the city will have to adjust their outward costumes too. hohoo...

"this is my new green cloth," says the house to the bikes.

"and these are our purple balloons," replied the bikes.

welcome

thank you, victor. it is a wonderful surprise that 'on days like these', your book, arrived today.

it is indeed a comfort to know that some things never change. a place, a face, a feeling, a taste, a warmth, a poem, a friendship, anything. a constant thing that stays as it has always been.

like the sun.

perhaps it's because i am a may man. a taurean like you. who never quite want to get too far away from the sun. and from the tales that you have written.

it feels so nice read from you again. especially on the days like these. almost ten years since i was first introduced to you. in that old building where your book of traveller's tales rested as a collection. donated by the british council.

i know that some of them, those who speak very fluently the language of the snows, are also fond of swiming in your lines.

another spring

if i might see another spring
i'd not plant summer flowers and wait:
i'd have my crocuses at once,
my leafless pink mezereons,
my chill-veined snowdrops, choicer yet
my white or azure violet,
leaf-nested primrose; anything
to blow at once not late.

if i might see another spring
i'd listen to the daylight birds
that build their nests and pair and sing,
nor wait for mateless nightingale;
i'd listen to the lusty herds,
the ewes with lambs as white as snow,
i'd find out music in the hail
and all the winds that blow.

if i might see another spring—
oh stinging comment on my past
that all my past results in "if"—
if I might see another spring
i'd laugh to-day, to-day is brief;
i would not wait for anything:
i'd use to-day that cannot last,
be glad to-day and sing.

the beauty of the future

"vahd, if you could only remember how it looked like in the future, you would see how beautiful it is. and it helps you to better understand and memorise the present and the past."

when lillian said that to me, my mind went beyond their context. a few steps across the border of meanings. my instant reaction when hearing that sentence was smiling and thinking to myself, "how could i possibly 'remember' how something looked like 'in the future'?"

i have no crystal ball to consult.

well, in fact, i don't need one. all i need is my lecture notes. and a heavier dose of focus and consentration while in the classroom.

because afterall, lillian is my native french teacher. and she was about to teach me the easiest way to memorise various forms of tenses in french.

"voila, lillian. je n'oublierai pas 'le futur'." i came so far for beauty.

i am coming...

a yellow coming out of white.

a sailor's monologue

take your time, youth, make no haste. the night's still young, and the waves can wait. the time will freeze, and the dawn will come late. dont you stand still, there by the gate, preparing yourself to fulfill that unknown mandate. hear your faithful 'me' begs you here, not to migrate.

but if must you soon leave, youth, then kindly say something. reveal your unspoken maps to the eyes of the world. where is that nameless shore you hid the oars of the boat?

use simple language, dont stay muted. one day you'll look back at this very age, and you'll be amused. stay here one more night, or if you cant, just one or two more hours. and let the story be heard. but if it is your call already to go away, oi, oi, oi,...

then please do take this blue lantern with you. it will gladen your heart in some way.

clouds

i am spellbound by the sunny spring, as if my soul yearns to be free like birds on the wing. there are so much perfect offerings that come to me from morning to evening. yet i must contend with saying no and no again, although deep within my curiousity remains tangling.

i must refuse, because this is but one of the few weeks in my life, when i measure things in terms of how many pages i typed and revised. not kilometers passed, not tunes of songs played, not movies or sports and games watched, not letters and calls received, not photographs of faces made, not sterlings euros or dollars earned. no, no, no.

ahead of me is the month of may. and a new set of weeks of trinity, the last lap towards the end of the race. with exams and deadlines await me at the gate. and then, may i return peacefully to where i came from after the dining tools are cleaned and shelved.

but until then, there is sill a month of may ahead. and one silent but memorable thing a taurean will annually celebrate.