Why wait for Reading Year to start reading?

(Editorial - 2nd for daily newspaper Kuensel)

The prime minister, in his state of the nation report, declared 2015 as the Reading Year.  It is one the best news from Parliament in recent days.
It is also a news that almost every Bhutanese citizen would welcome, although  they may not  be practicing it.
Reading is important, perhaps more important than pay raise and taxes, for it focuses on more than just deficiency among Bhutanese.  The benefits of reading are many.  It exercises the mind, teaches concentration, and provides a wealth of knowledge – all of which everyone is aware of.  But its importance gets drowned, and ignored, most likely by the supposedly important taxes, salary hikes, and other issues of national interest.
It’s a cliché that Bhutan leaped from a culture of rich oral tradition to the visual medium, forgoing the printed word.  But if oral tradition was rich, it’s a good indicator that Bhutanese can be good readers.  It’s simply a matter of timely intervention and a necessary push.
Reading skills do not emerge out of the blue, and no age is too early (or late) to start.  To read, one has to comprehend, and to comprehend, one has to talk, understand and know language.
Scientific evidence supports exposing children early to language, as early as the time they are in the womb. Literacy in the first and second years of lives is most effective in making them skilled readers later in life.  It is in this nascent period, that language develops at a pace that is unmatched at any other age, or ages put together.
In the UK, a ‘talk to your baby’ program found that children, who are less spoken to, have a smaller vocabulary then their peers.
In Bhutan if most adults are a lost cause, the reading habit is still not beyond hope.  If adults feel and know reading to be important and good for their children, they will, and must, take up the responsibility to teach their children to read, and develop it into a habit.
While buying a toy from a store, pick up a book too – a picture book, an alphabet book or a book of words.  Inculcate in your children the hunger to read, to feel the printed page under their fingers, and to crave the smell of paper.  This done, in years to come, they will pick a book, for they would know well about the untold treasures it holds.
Scientific evidence also shows that those who read are those who perform well academically, not to say that’s the sole reason why children should read.  It simply means children grow intellectually and, as they grow, they understand things easier, better and faster.
Next year may be the Reading Year, but one need not wait that long.  It is said children are made into readers on the laps of their parents. Start today.

Taxing the taxed

(First editorial for the daily paper Kuensel) 


Vehicles are prized possessions, be they luxury or necessity.  The news of  lifting of the ban on import of vehicles would have sparked excitement, if it were not for the revision of vehicle import taxes, deliberated in the National Assembly, snubbing it out.
Instead, the feeling it has generated is one of exasperation and disappointment, despite the government’s reasoning.
The reasons are, to some extent, why there is a disgruntled lot.
But most importantly, the burden of tax increase, including the five percent on fossil fuel, would weigh down mainly on the low-income group.  The revision is expected to set off a chain reaction, with the uncontrollable inflation receiving yet another boost.
For the low-income people, the preferred vehicle comes in small packages and lower cylinder capacity (CC).  The government proposed a 110 percent tax on the import of vehicle in the 1,500CC category, and the National Assembly reduced it to 100 percent, citing reasons, such as unaffordability and necessity.
Those imported from India will not be levied customs duty, which is 45 percent, only sales and green taxes.  In retrospection, the government imposed the ban to control the outflow of Indian rupee.  The situation could be put to task, with those wanting to buy vehicles choosing the cheaper option.
The government will garner a handsome sum from the taxes, but the question is: at whose expense?
There are those who’ve been waiting for the ban to be lifted to buy their first cars, which can also be the first family car.
At the assembly discussions, members argued that it would be appropriate to let first-time buyers purchase without the revised rates.  The second, it was said, could be taxed the new rates, because it would then fit as a luxury.
This makes sense in the light that public transport system is either lacking or unreliable.
The five percent fuel tax rubs salt on the wound.  Cost of transportation will increase, and this will lead to increase in cost of goods and services, and here again the low-income group and farmers in rural areas will be hit the hardest.
The intention to raise vehicle import taxes is misplaced, despite motives, such as environment factor, control of vehicle numbers and reducing sreliance on fossil fuel, being laudable.
What’s important, at least for the time being, is to first have alternatives in place before taking the plunge.  Electric cars are to decrease reliance on fuel, but it is yet to establish itself.  Besides criticism faced at home, the vehicle in question, Nissan Leaf, has been receiving negative reviews in the international market and in Japan.
The capital city has a fairly good public transport system, but it needs a major boost to serve and cater to the masses.  In other districts, public transport is almost lacking.  An alternative should be in place, like an efficient and reliable transport system, so buying a vehicle can warrant a second thought.
With rising cost of living, aren’t citizens, especially from the low-income group, already taxed enough?

Midnight

A frozen midnight.

Is that a possibility?

So the scales don't dip 

to the other side.

I'd like to stay on this side.

This side of the clock.

This side of the day that ticks away.

Weigh the scales down with all my might,

If I might say.

But those sixty ticks, clicks and chimes

don't stay.

Can I freeze you midnight?

Is there a giant battery

I could simply pull out

to stop you?
Is there a way 
to break you?

So I don't have to exclaim

It's midnight already!
I've got little fingers to entwine with 
tiny feet to hold in my palms
and it's today I must savour it. 
It's today's dose 
not tomorrow's.

Narcissistic

No!

There's no such thing

as Love.

Love.

Narcissism. Narcissistic. 

the only one.

brimming

 almost bursting

but not flowing out,

only to

overflow

when children

arrive.

No! Don't!

Don't get me started. 

You're not confused.

There's no such thing

as Love.

It's Narcissism.

Don't confuse emotions.

Your Love for the other person

is pure Narcissism.

Still a dreamer

The life we've already lived – it's no surprise- is worth looking back at and reflecting on. Breaking it down to a decade, because that's when I graduated from college and started work, I am surprised how less ten years can be.

Here I am after the sad bus ride back home from college, and after the snow fall on the day I started interning with the paper where I'd later work for the next ten years of my life. I still do. Just that I am on maternity leave and writing this at home sitting next to my two-month old boy who just woke up and is squirming and straining. It's gas problem that babies have to grow-out of, something I've learnt from my experience with my first born. Yes, I've two sons to go along with a marriage and a career. All of which sums up my life in the past decade.

Coming to think about it a career, a marriage, two children in a decade is a lot even to spell out, so simply imagine what it'd be like to actually live it. No wonder when I reflect the last decade seemed to have zipped by, and it leaves one with a feeling of how less ten years can be. Life certainly is short.

At the threshold of another decade in life, my youngest sibling is at the beginning of the decade I left. She just returned from India having finished college. If her life seemed to have dragged so far, she'll regret how fast this decade's going to be and it's kind of worrying because where does that take or leave me. I'd really want it to be eventful but slow.

And at the beginning of another decade I write this down, hopefully it'll be able to help me reflect at the end of the tenth year.

I don't want to call this my 'Bucket List' because it has such a finality to it. I will call this my list of must-do things. These are things that complete and make me whole. With all the I and Me going on I definitely sound like a selfish and self-centered person. Maybe I am. Or maybe I just need to do it and find out if it really does make me whole (I know it will), and keep the judging to others and not be bothered by the judgements.

• Grow and groom a garden (beautiful enough to soothe an aching heart and not just for the butterflies, bees and birds)
• paint (that empty canvas that comes to my mind each time I think of painting)
• write a book (inspire others to write too)
• sing a song (make a crowd go wild)
• climb a mountain (cross a river/s, sleep under the stars, and feel the warmth of a camp fire on my face while the frozen wind chills me to the bones from the back)
• take a stunning portrait of a baby (pursue it as a hobby)
• publish my poems (make others feel the melancholy, sadness, heartaches and dejection that inspires and makes me poetic)
• Holiday with my family (hold hands, leave footprints at a beach, sip on a cool, tall lemonade, smile, and leave memories in photographs that'll age beautifully)

I've just realised no matter how fast or slow, or consistent or inconsistent, and whether there have been external or internal influences affecting my thoughts and actions, I am still that dreamer I used to be. Happy!

Baby Blues

The glow of the neon lights cascaded in ripples of warm air that hit the skin unforgivingly. It took some time getting used to the heat in the neonatal ward.

But it numbed the post c-section backache that was making life miserable lately.

A line of white tents, as if pitched mid-air looked like luxury tents for tourists somewhere in the Sahara desert, glowing blue under a clear night sky and surrounded by gentle golden dunes that went on and on.

But this room was a far cry from luxury hotels. And as if as a reminder a wail from one the 'tents' interrupted this reverie.

Nothing luxurious about phototherapy beds. Just a fanciful thought.

In a flash a woman stood up from the floor, lifted the sheet from the tent, and scooped out a naked infant, bawling for attention. The white sheet lying between the glass and the infant was soaked in yellowish fluid. It was a good sign that the few days old baby was recovering from jaundice. Phototherapy was working in breaking down the bilirubin into a substance that could be digested and excreted with other wastes.

It was good to see infants recovering in the neonatal ward but the overpowering feeling of sadness couldn't be ignored.  There seem to be, in the air, a consolidated sadness of parents and family members of the tiny helpless patients.

So as I sat on the floor behind the phototherapy bed where my four-day old son was getting treatment, tears welled up my eyes.

Just then my sister and her husband walked by to say they were leaving. "Are you crying?" she asked. I said no. "Come on, I can see the tears glisten under the blue light," she said, trying to bring some relief to the tense moment. Tears started streaming down. "Well there's no reason," I said. "I am just crying."

It was the truth. And a lie too.

The drop in hormones after delivery was to be blamed, or so I've learned. It's called postpartum blues or baby blues. It was second pregnancy and repeat c-section for me, but the blues caught me off guard this time around.

Just a couple of months back, a friend was caught in a similar overpowering emotion that she simply sat on the bed in the ward and let tears roll down when her brother-in-law came in. "Don't cry," he'd consoled her, and instinctively handed her the chocolate he was eating. "Here, have some chocolate," he said.

She narrated the incident like it didn't matter and I felt much better.

Over the days, weeks and months such a situation could ease up and become only a memory. It meant, even for me it should only be a phase I'd overcome and become a 'been there, done that' moment.

The other day, as the milk came in and the breasts became engorged, I was overcome with a powerful emotion that I simply let tears roll. It was an 'Alice in Wonderland' moment. I felt like a giant crying gigantic tears, which were more powerful and capable of wetting the cloth than the milk I was expressing to get some relief.

I found myself unable to explain, so I blamed it on the engorgement. I simply felt blue.

Back in the neonatal ward, in the mothers room were baskets containing hot bottles and food, relatives with grim and tired faces, and  mothers recovering from labour and c-section. Most mothers preferred to sleep on mattress laid near infant's treatment bed. The two rooms, while identical were the opposite in terms of cleanliness.

The neonatal room was spick-and-span. The mother's room looked like a dharamshala. Without a bed I had to find a corner to stack my mattresses.

I sat on a bed of a stranger when I had to eat. My mother had sent soup, rice and scrambled eggs. And as I sipped on the soup, I couldn't help but let my lips curl down, like that of the fish in an aquarium I'd been face to face while stealing shots with a camera.

Outside, we could see the parking lot near the ER. It was a cloudy day matching my spirit and the spirit inside the ward.

I looked around the room and saw tired sleepy eyes, some nodding away while others looked stoned with worry and sadness. A parent draped in a gown, worn while entering the ICU trudged in and plonked on the bed, only to be called back to the ICU again. 
Something was desperately required to lift the spirit here. With each mouthful I blinked tears away.

The mood was so much different here than in the maternity ward where mothers and fathers cooed to their newborns and happy relatives visited with gifts and food.

The neonatal had the saddest aura about it and it didn't help for I had the blues.

Entering the phototherapy room was a task. I'd simply ignore the first few beds in the phototherapy where infants lay naked with tubes running through their nose and hand. They looked helpless with their tiny fingers and toes, limbs and arms. I dreaded what it'd be like in the ICU.

The two days and nights spent at the neonatal ward dragged. Everyone in the ward desperately wanted to leave, but not without their little ones safe and sound.

Day two in the ward was a Sunday and the testing facility staff had requested the ward not to send patients for bilirubin testing because the machine was down.

So on Monday, when the nurse instructed parents to take their babies for the test the ward suddenly seemed bright and alive.

With the lights out and the sheets hauled over the phototherapy machine, the room wore a different look- a very welcoming look. It was bright and airy and not under the haze of neon lights that seemed to have a drugging effect. 
After the test Leki came with the result. "It's 17," he said and my face simply dropped. I was that melancholy fish in the aquarium again. It had to be below 14 to get a yes from the pediatrician to go home. More importantly, it indicated my son was not recovering as expected.

"I am joking," he said. "It's eight. Can't you see? It's scribbled on the paper."

The weight in my heart suddenly disappeared.  We were headed home. 

Lennon Vs Anonymous

Pondering on what John Lennon said about life and what an anonymous person said on the same recurring theme, that almost everyone can't help wondering about.

So Lennon said, "Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans", and anonymous said, "Life is not waiting for things to happen".  The riddle becomes enigmatic with these two statements in disagreement with each other. It's paradoxical. Yet it holds water.

Lennon seems to be more submissive, in the fact that life seems to be out of control and can contradict what one is trying to do or working towards.

Anonymous, on the other hand, is in-charge. You pave way. You bulldoze to where you want to go or be. Life is your action towards fulfilling your goals and aspirations.

Often the situation, in life, is such that you have to stop and think either the Lennon way or the Anonymous way.  Being caught in both situations, at different points in life is something everyone can associate with.

Like this one time, not long ago, I had plans to climb; visit the highlands and communities, to soak in the grandeur of the mountains. And yet another plan to go out of the capital city into the districts, with a friend, to comb the communities for stories that we could write about.

But here I am reflecting, finding it ridiculous at times, that Life happened. The tiny life that has bound me to safe drives, limited chores, back-aches and a general feeling felt by a ... happy-sad kind of person (if there is such a thing as happy-sad person), who tear up for no reason.

Yet, this is also a time where I am in control of Life. I know what I want and where I want to be in the coming years and accordingly I tread. The steps are weighed and controlled. I didn't and am not waiting for it to happen.

The fragments that make up life, well, not all can be controlled. There are those which are resigned to fate. It's a lesson worth learning, which can bring comfort and some light to this endless pandemonium - within the head or voiced out.

I am sure Lennon had his share of taking charge of Life and Anonymous had his or her share of Life taking charge. And I am sure there are others whose take on Life is different from what you and I have heard or known.

The day Music died

I can't hear music
I can't feel it either
my glorious shadow!
my soul!
it's gone!

Someone met
my androgynous being
forlorn,
walking aimlessly
looking for a stranger
to take it in
as I lay dispersed
and entangled.


A piper could've played
a tune
to entice the web
into a snake like figurine
to crawl to a fringe
let it drop off the edge
into the gaping blackness
never to find its way back.
But that's wishful thinking.


It choked
Oh! how music shrieked
as the web tightened
and strings pulled tight
drawing soulful melancholy
from it
until there was no voice
no raspy breath
no will to resuscitate
the day music died.

LIFE

Once again I feel it stirring

lids closed, it's tiny fingers swimming 

growing

with each stroke and heart beat

forging an identity

it's identity

leaving traces of butterfly kisses 

on the womb's wall 

gentle fingers caresses from the outside 

and soon flies to the lips

nauseated 

But it's just a sign 

that all is well within the womb

You are most welcome for my bearing.

The hunter

I

 Naked.

 Cold.

Skin clamped
to the bones!

He was dying,

the past had robbed 

his youth
and glory.

His world eclipsed 

by a deceptive 

feminine smile.

He hungered,

the pain grew.

He fought it 

dragged it 

and fed it to 

the heart,

his faithful

leashed and chained

and set out for the 

 hunt 

II

She swayed her hips

the hunter sensed it 

his hungered 

tugged at the leash.
The heart 
growled
baring fangs
as she cocked her head
and swayed her hips
even more. 
Her skin
rosy!
fragrant!
Her hair
tumbling down
endlessly. 
The growling persisted
but was weakening.
The chain links
breaking down.
The leash
useless.
The hunt
endless!
Fruitless!
The heart
glowing, beating, heating up
once again

III

Leave me be,
he roared.
She whimpered
He stumbled
The invisible knife
twisted
his heart
 red.
She savoured it
He missed it,
failing once more
to see
 deception
lurking within
the delicate
mould.
 Tears sparkled
her eyes.
The hunt was over
The hunter ensnared
The stripping
begun
once again.

A smile that grew

... into affection
the little paw
that fit into a palm
snug
and
safe
reassured,
his gaze intent
and his lips
spread into a toothless grin
that
reflected
and radiated
on the face above
the mother wore a smile
a smile that grew ...

Delighted!

Three of the four bulbs I've planted are blooming. A long but rewarding wait.

Small things in life

So there I was, yesterday, driving up to Buddha Point to collect top soil for my flower pots, so I could plant the begonia bulbs which has been lying around in my car for over two weeks. I've been thinking  to plant it on a weekend- but what do you know, weekends are one of the busiest days.
So yesterday, I promised myself that I'd plant it, and for my own sake, for when it blooms I light up like a candle. Not sure, though, that I light up the place where I am at, at that moment.  

Chrismas cactus blooming last year

Small pretty flowers opening up and swallowing all the darkness. I've planted it - 6 bulbs- and watered it too. Can't wait for it to come out of the soil and begin blooming. Right now I am content with Christmas cactus (blooming late since Christmas is long gone). The orange buds have been here for over a week or two. I am waiting, patiently, for it to open up.
These are little things in life that matters.  Hopefully, amid the chaos, I'll remember to do a little thing or two, for others as well as for myself, each day. 

Thank you for the music

Being born in October I am an autumn child and perhaps for that bond I find inspiration in melancholy.
I can delve in my thoughts until it stirs and draws out sadness from every bit of feeling, even happiness.
Yet there is a music in me, one that stirs from happiness in a happy sort of way.
It's like the time I am so caught up in something that I don't have time for melancholy to sit on my lap for me to nurse it.
This is spring, and exactly like the season itself.
It is so much about hope and things coming alive. It's nature coming alive and even though I may look worn out and sapped from the outside, I feel like I am blooming within.
 If only if I could renew like the peach trees and the gardens, then I'd bloom from the outside too. Spring is the beauty one feels inside.
It is the uplifting music. It is the answer. There is no end to life. It is the music that musicians leave behind to be heard again and again and again, to be re-generated and revived. So thank you for the flowers, the reawakening, inspiration, for the music I feel inside and for the music that you are.

A step back

For each step forward, take two backwards. That's the logical thing to do in life. 

mama

mother & son

mama it's your lil' son 

I've grown up

I am sure you'll be pleased to see me 

healthy and strong 

mama I'm sad 

you're not keeping your words 

It's been years and you're still not home

I miss you more each day

mama I cried, 

cried several times

I was at cousin's home and it was fun 

but when dusk came and artificial lights lit up rooms 

I cried 

mama I hid underneath a bed

and cried my heart blue 

they found me soon enough

and looked at me with pity

oh mama! how I cried 

mama I hear your voice over the phone 

but that's not enough 

and I can't speak 

mama, I wish you could hear my heart 

each beat waits for your return 

mama I miss the way you smell

I can't recall 

the last fragrance from your shirts 

faded as the machine beat it into pulp 

and what remained vaporised in the sun

mama come home

 have me in your arms 

and I'll forget all that you missed

 my PTA 

the concert where I danced like a star

and more

mama I'm hurt 

you're not listening

I'm entering a dark alley,

inside a bar no one seems to bother

 for I look old enough

a man at the counter hands me a shot 

I gulp it down 

the acidity burns my throat 

but cocoons my heart 

its no longer blue 

and it no longer beats for you 

aromatic memories

I was dressing up for office, when something in my cupboard reminded me of times in my college dorm room. I picked the kira, dug in my face and took a deep breath. It was a sweet yet tangy smell.

I was back in the dorm room, amid posters of models, actors and bands, and REM's Imitation of Life was playing on a box-like stereo, borrowed from a senior.

It was a flash. The short but powerful time in my life, of a caterpillar morphing into a butterfly. I held the kira for few seconds longer. My heart radiating into a perfect smile on my lips. The good friends, the tiny town, the village folks, the evenings at their impoverished homes, sitting near the crackling fire and chewing on corn on the cob. Then there was this foggy narrow road leading to college where I'd meet my classmates and the crushes. All were all contained within that one whiff of fragrance.

I stood a second longer, unable to tear from the memory and sniffed for more. But I was running late for office. The day turned out to be perfect. It was raining but nothing could shroud the glow and the contentment I felt inside. I was living a life which made so much sense. The traffic did not matter, the song on the radio was melodious and I was singing along. I had the key to happiness.

Another time, it was spring and healthy green bushes in the office garden along the path to canteen were bursting with flowers. Another whiff of memory. I couldn't resist it, so I bent down and took a deep breath and lingered for a second longer. The tea, for which I was visiting canteen, was forgotten.

I was back in the remote village of Sibsoo in Samtse and I'd just started school. We'd put on dangling pink earrings made from the flowers. In school we'd sneak in green hot chillies and hoard it, along with salt, under the wooden desks. In the midday sleep-inducing sun, when the teacher was busy up in front, we'd simply sweat at the back, eyes wide open and attentive to salt melting inside the tiny but super hot jitsi ema. And to think we were only five or six years old.

Then there was the Nepali class which taught us a song about a crow and a sly fox. An earthquake shook us out of bed and had a manic elderly person shouting naka, naka, naka... prancing about on the ground, as I rubbed off rest of the sleep from my eyes.

The memories offered no names or faces but only forms. Yet the fragrance unlocked memories of green chilies, the scorching sun, the blackboard illustration of fox and crow and dusty wooden floors on which we sat. 

And today as I get a whiff of rain drenched earth from my office window, I simply wonder what I'd be reminded of later in life when I smell the rain and earth again. Perhaps this story I am sharing. Perhaps the children's book with earthy tones that I am reviewing, or the leaves of the ivy vines dangling from the window grill. Or perhaps it will remind me of my editor playing When the Children Cry on guitar or my son trying to catch raindrops with his little paws. 

I have no idea. The fragrances seem to box in and lock bits and pieces of life on its own will. But I am sure if I ever remember these bits and pieces they will turn into a particular scent, which I can call my own and no one can ever smell it. It is my happiness.             

Corporal punishment

I've never given the controversial corporal punishment as much thought as I did when parliamentarians discussed it passionately while deliberating on the Child Care and Protection Bill recently. It made me remember that one semester in my entire schooling life, which was the most torturous of all.

I was twelve years old and, from what I gather, the teacher picked on me and it wasn't on disciplinary grounds. Coming from the capital and a better-rated school was the reason or so it seemed.

“Why did you transfer to a primary school in the south, from a junior high school in the capital,” he would ask.

Did I answer it? I honestly don't remember. But I remember the thin bamboo sticks that would splinter away on my palm. The cold pinching slap on my palm, which instantly became pale and, a few seconds later, turned red and hot. I'd never cry. The students would watch in fear.

Every morning I'd watch out for him. But he never missed a class. The mental torture was what got me the most. Maybe that's why I failed in almost all subjects, including English, that semester.

My parents transferred me to a different school but it wasn't because of the teacher, which is the most ironic part. The devil in disguise was the best math teacher, at least according to parents. Not once did any parent in the small community complain against him. Rather they'd side with him.

Now when I reflect on it, I still feel I was a victim. There was no way I would become a math whiz that way.

There were times when other teachers flogged me for forgetting my homework and I felt I deserved it. But in the maths teacher’s case I did not. But I never complained. Who'd listen? I accepted it as it is, especially because we'd hear stories from adults about how worse it was during their times.

Things are changing. Children know their rights now. The education ministry's code of conduct for teachers prohibits corporal punishment. But, like the discussion during the national assembly session, there is no consensus among the different laws related to child care and protection.

The penal code provides that loophole, which gives teachers, (who fit under person responsible for general care and supervision category), the right to use force and on disciplinary grounds.

Some parliamentarians have qualms over spelling out corporal punishment in the childcare act.

The pro-corporal punishment parliamentarians feel abolishing corporal punishment is a western concept and does not fit in a society where it was a tradition to use force to discipline children. The furious manifestations of the deities were evoked at the parliament. For the good of the people, the gods take up force and fury, said a parliamentarian.

Yes, I still do fear my math teacher and the dzongkha teacher, but it is the one lesson that my father taught me which had a greater impact in making me a better person than all the floggings that I received. I was only nine years old then.

The kitchen and toilet of our home were located outside the main structure. At the break of dawn, I was up with a terrible stomach-ache. Everybody was sound asleep. I was scared to go out in the dark. So I simply stepped out and emptied my tummy outside near the door, and went back to sleep.

When my father got up and went outside, he saw it and shouted who was responsible for that. I thought I was up for a beating. But I went up to him and explained why I did it outside. He simply grinned, patted me and said, “Good. Honest is what I expect you to be.”

Missing Beauty

Like thrill

from thunder

and streaks of lightening 

beauty of dried roses

and twisted thorny twigs

splendour of  

fire lit mountains 

against the cold night sky 

wish beauty visited 

me 

Not like in 

the pleasing

coo of a baby

colourful splatter

on an artist’s canvas 

exquisiteness

of a fine lady’s china 

or a well painted face 

but in decayed trees 

covered with mosses

small white flowers 

growing on a tomb

and candle melting into 

perfect beauty 

unconsciously 

where it stood

spring again ...