In your place,

I planted a *******.

On the southern border

Of a dilapidated, porous house.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I used leaves that have decayed

More than the usual

As manure.

I took handfuls of the sand,

That was measured out

For construction of the house,

And spread over its base,

Without any measure.

I diverted the rain,

That was flowing away lazily,

To its base.

******* trembled

As love swelled up within.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I kissed every leaf,

Without anyone seeing it.

Its veins looked like yours,

When I read them gently.

And when the eyes welled up

I made a ridge under them

With my soiled hands.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I will nurture it with love.

I will fight with ants and beetles

And even butterflies.

If it ever droops,

I will pamper it with sweet talks

And pet names uttered in its ear.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I will stand guard to it

In rain and shine.

I will tattoo on my palm

Its green, branches and leaves.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

Tears

Spittle

*****

I will pour out the soul of life

Just for it.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

In nights, when I really lose it,

I will hug it and cry my heart out.

I will shower it with kisses,

Drenched with tears and spittle.

I will lie down on its lap,

When the eleven bells crumble.

And when I feel naughtier

I will close my eyes

Get inside it

And hide in there.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

One day,

It will flower.

And sing aloud, yellow yellow yellow.

The wind, birds and all creepers around

Will take up that song.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

One day.



One day

I will open my day

With its sight

And fade away to next life.

It will wait for me

Till the next life.







‘ When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.’

A requiem sung at funeral of Christians.

Contemplating life
over a hot bowl of soup,
my mindful mentor
passed me
the pleasure of oyster
to mix in with
the pain of chilies
stirred together by
chopsticks held in my hands.

There he taught me
the lesson of humanity
and the person's potential,
pointing at me
and then back at the bean sprout,
fiddling it in his chopsticks
as if he were God,
mentioning to me
"This sprout and you have plenty alike..."

"What do you mean?
How am I like a vegetable?"

He smiled and nodded to disagree,
"Life is not always physical.
Think for a second,
open your fragile closed mind.
Imagine this soup not just a bowl
but instead a cauldron,
the mixing of different elements,
sensations seared by heat
to create the luxuries we call
the world where you
are a mere bean sprout."

Looking at the small, colorless
tasteless, inferior plant,
I wondered, confused and asked:
"Am I so inferior in this world
that I cannot compare
to the rich flavor of beef,
to the nurturing noodles,
to the accenting spices,
but instead am no more
than a flavorless root?"

Yet my mentor laughed,
and patiently passed:
"You worry too much young one,
too much on yourself you blame.
Instead, take upon consideration
that the bean sprout is small,
fragile, tasteless like water;
there is nothing you can change
other than size and color,
but lower it into the soup
and patiently stir,
allow it to soak up the world
and obtain its potential."

I repeated his actions,
placed myself in the world,
sat patient and absorbed its essence,
and then removed it,
placed it to my lips.
Surprised that what I later discovered
was not a bland taste of disappointment arose
but instead what lingered to the tongue
was the sweet taste of near perfection.