Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Written somewhere between Ming Ying Village and Li Jiang:

The sky gazes at me with blue smiles.
Yellow butterfly leaves flutter aflutter,
And dances their last
Graceful falling dances.

The two of them begin to yawn
And boringly count the colours,
the limited number of colours they see.
Blue. Grey. Brown. Yellow. White.
Blue. Blue. Blue.
Blue. Grey. Brown. Yellow. White. Green.

The emerald lake softly draws me to it,
As it drowns away my sighs,
As it sweetly drenches my soul.
We sit there half looking at ripples move,
Half allowing our secret dreams to soothe.

The wind whispers without a sound.
It swiftly sways my interest to
Such perfection, such pureness-
White Mountains, beyond human's reach.

Drunk with the splendor of the passing,
The painters of shadows starts drifting.
And I begin to wonder how
The world can be so beautiful
With so few colours
Arresting my eyes,
and ceasing my pace.

Those colours-
They are enough.
A single colour-
That is enough, in the hands of nature.