Friday, October 22, 2004
There’s a dream that flashes in us when it gets watered:
then like a sown seed it seeks to sprout it’s shrubbery hands,
reaching for the sunlight, reaching for the starlight,
shrouded by the soil as an oyster shell.
Yet it lies deep, and forever yearning for green hands
to hear its tender shrill and nourish its calling.
Such a seed is in us all when we wake from slumber womb.
Drowsed by our waking world, with white noise like water rapids,
we hear not the plea to further wake, to further explore.
Such is our world of unkempt seedlings, spoilt and dour,
waiting for the dream to flash, for water to pour.