Wait! – we have time to camouflage
In the comforting darkness, to hide, and
to clench the distant stars with the
emptiness of our fists-

to sieve the grains of sand through the
bones of our fingers, and to permit the slippery
texture of youth to wash itself, wash away,
and to quench our thirst thereafter-

you say we have time, to map the colours of
opalescent, to re-capture it on dry canvas,
and to crash the waves on our creations,

as if we really had time.

as on a musical score,
our parts are dictated,
spelt out in dynamics,
in rhythm, in pitch, in
timing, in tone.

our fingers are being manipulated
across the instruments of our lives,
abandoning the very soul of our existence.

but observe how a little improvisation
in this large chorus of soulless players
does no harm.

it's liberating -
like a line that cares not for rhythm nor syntax nor sound nor length.

my maestro, how do you -
with your baton - keep the
pulse of my heart aching
for the broad gestures your
open arms insinuate?

tell me wholly, how you -
with your hands - conjure
in me an anthem con brio,
then throw me subito doloroso
and even so, never losing
your scherzando.

eclipse of the individual -
kindly, the heavens convey with rain,
and not the sun
to prove myself a shadowless existence.

sometimes, i sense myself spilling
my youth from a fragile glass jar.

other times, i conclude it's just me storing
up for frantic spending in its decaying days.

but mostly, my duties occupy the space -
this intangible commodity squeezes for place.

such metaphors would have been absurd and
bizzare to the shrieking children of the kampong days

my grandparents talked about: climbing trees that rusted
with rambutans, ankles dipped in mud burgeoning with

self-invented games, a bedlam of clucking chickens fleeing
unsuccessfully, dinner for a hut bursting with extended family.

nothing i can identify with: neither a similar event, nor
a familiar atmosphere of wild abandonment of youth.  

i exist in a time where parents knock on rooms to bring their
students nutritious chicken essence, with a stack of expectations.

what's so good about progress: when our roots are saliva-speak,
when our youth and beyond are spent before it's expiry?

much like acclimatisation, i am ashamed to reveal that,
many times i can feel alive only when i adhere to the routines in

this city of expectations.

am i just a rod of rain water?
caressing the details of
a spacious and silent ocean?

am i just a voice in a choir?
as good as having mouth a phrase
mouthed by a hundred other?

am i just a single stroke of paint?
a superfluous, artistic finishing touch
to a masterpiece of colours?  

am i?

can i ever be a single word in poetry?
singular yet serious?
and not:

inconsequential?

When Youth’s roots stem with dreams:
Infinite, as the shimmer of the night sky’s stars
Blossoming into megawatts of galaxies,
Megawatts of dreams ,
Carried deftly through lightly perfumed Youth -
Let’s chase them while we can.                                                            

Yet while dreams are carried on this tickling free-willed pollen,
A tiny spore of such fragility,
Even the faintest of wrong winds could
Lose it! Lose it!
Winds of despair;
Of not daring;
Of incapability;
Winds of constriction will change her course!  
With their vicious blast                                                                              
The beauty of dreams fades into that dense air;
That dense air filled with broken dreams,
Losing their journey of being carried,
Being carried across new continents,
Where the glories of dreams roam.

Yet! All it takes is the fiery force of
Unfaltering passion
To plant your tree of life from dreams into reality,
To mould worlds of your visions -
Let’s chase them while we can.

Like the journalists who lived to chase the truth and
And the historians who lived to chase the past -
Let’s chase them while we can.