Tuesday, 6 January 2009


Through half black slanted eyes moving rapidly,
Gliding from door to door
Watching strangers, foes and friends
Across the room, you know
Sometimes they’re all the same.

And in the same room, we
Watch the day pass in black and white
Devoid of colours, a Polaroid
We become whispers, trapped
Like moths to a flame.
Like a reflection, re-arranged.

Like they keep secrets in China.

At times we talk in pictures.
We take the breeze that flutters prayer flags
And fly away to other lands.
Places where our grandmothers’ stories
Held their sway
To a time when our fathers were lovers
And our mothers didn’t believe
Everything they heard.

And sometimes,
Sometimes we speak in symbols,
In signs we made our own.
But we never say a word.
They will never know
Our language is one.

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