What is an adolescent?
Stare at the faded walls of my old bedroom,
Breathe in the air of my old home,
And I’m a kid again.

What is a grown-up?
Look up at the sky full of stars,
Savour its familiar vastness,
And I’m small again.

What is a professional?
Come back to my old practice room,
Find those sweaty shirts and socks,
And I’m a trainee again.

What is old age?
Rock on the rocker like rocking a swing,
Stretch out my arms to catch the wind,
And I’m young again.

What is the world?
Blue and green, some say, inanimate,
But it lives and breathes for me, changing,
And I’m alive again.

A single green leaf that fell from the stout tree
With a patchwork of veins on a green canvas
And beauty known, not singly, but together
As are words without a craftsman, alas!

I know not such class as to weave ‘ere words,
For that you need a magician, who is but quiet,
Mesmerised in words, for words are all he knows
Then society falls for him and christens him a poet.

He is but human, but has his way with words
He gathers them together, and stacks them like dominoes
And as the first word is spoken, and the first domino toppled,
We are trapped in their fine stratagem, like a band of coyotes.

Their words are nor too harsh, nor too dulcet,
Nor too real, nor too dreamy,
Nor are they hypothetical, nor factual,
But delicate, like a single green leaf that fell from the stout tree.

Rocks do cry
When there is love all around them,
Rocks do cry.

When the storm blows away one's life's meaning
And leaves them with neither floor nor ceiling,
Rocks do mourn their sorrowful feeling,
Yes, rocks do cry.

When soil encloses one's life and clamps them,
Says all the mean things and with hate stamps them,
Rocks do hold them to their heart and clasp them,
Yes, rocks do cry.

When a shooting star falls from the bright sky,
A loved one is lost, in their tomb they lie,
Rocks do comfort them and bid them goodbye,
Yes, rocks do cry.