Monsoon grey clouds may bring gloom but surely look
prettier than blue skies; a perfect background to hornbill’s silhouette,
calling its mate, summoning the rains? Who knows?
I don’t speak hornbill. Do you?
After the heavy monsoon rains, wherever I look a sweet, expression of life and love.
And this is where on the floor of this tree all of last year I slept and dreamt of the months and years that will unfold to heal and spread joy, warm gentle summers and cold cosy winters, in which hot cups of tea will be passed around and we will all taste the sweetness of being, you will mine and I will your’s and it won’t matter where we came from; only where we are going to go to. And I wish for you that it’s a cosy happy place that you are going to.
Two little industrious boys. Tomorrow when they grow up, they can make or they can break. Tomorrow it could be nations' conflict that needs fixing. But for today, it's just disentangling of kite string that's needed.
They cast an iron sky over our cities They hoped for us to quietly rust. Our voices stronger, louder, more together, firecrackers of freedom, burning through it, bringing it down.
Sweet little girls in their Sunday best frock, with frills, satins and sequin.
Sweet little girls in their red ribbons, red roses and loveful smiles.
Sweet little girls with their bright eyes and the sweetest song of life.
This afternoon, you hovering over water's face, as if in your reflection admiring yourself. What joy it brought to my heart only the water knows and the breeze that kissed your delicate wings.