Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Fragments from 'The Man Who Died of Love' - No 8


I am a copy, a fake. Listen to me my dear: I am not real. I am an illusion; all that you see is but a reflection of something else. I am just a surface, the thin film of a water pool thinking itself to have depth. There is no depth in me but the thinness of my skin.

In your eyes I see a lake beyond: water of endless glistening that drowns me in my breathlessness. How can I become like you? How can the mimicry of my life lose itself to find the original art? How can this mystery be done, my love?

Can you share with me your secret? I am dying here without knowing; there is no real life for a copycat. There is no true beauty for a fake.

I am a forger. I once convinced myself that I was the great artist, now I know I was only a forger of his name.

How can your mysteries be known, my love; how can the deceiver lose his deception?

Must I wait long for an answer?

(The man died several years ago)

Saturday, January 14, 2006


I shall look into your face and remember you
Even when you thought I doubted your existence.

How could you think I was unawares just
Because I played dumb all these years?

Of course I am dumb.


Thursday, January 12, 2006


I light candles and arrange the room like an alter

For nothing other than the pleasure of your presence

And my absence.

Welcome to a world where all worlds blur,

Where no distinctions are made between here and now,

The there and then. We all mingle like party thieves,

Crashing the great event.

So I light the candles daily. I am your human prayer.

I see you above my shoulders, an unseen figure not there.

And I love the strength you provide me. You are the cross

I haven’t learnt to bear.