Tuesday, 23 November 2010

Tim Buckley, "Love from Room 109 at the Islander (On Pacific Coast Highway)"



One's mental journey flows like streams.
They start out smoothly;
their surfaces glisten like transparent lids.
Sunshine be the first one to bid them farewell,
for it has the strong belief that the odyssey will definitely augur well.

So they flow,
with the illusion of meandering in a fairyland.

Then the streams run into pebbles,
freckled at first but permeated the next.
The waves therefore occur.
At times they can grow so strong that the initial pureness of the streams' colour is muddled.
The streams race at full tilt,
as troops of horses fleeing out of a conflagrant barn.

The aforesaid case should be diagnosed as some usual undulations human lives,
but their nosy friends can hardly care no straw of it.
They stir up the waves again;
verify the eternal delusion.

The streams are propelled into gushes.
Despite of how the others might consider them- to be mad,
their words can still be sane and genuine,
just like the notorious Septimus in Mrs. Dalloway.

But who will lend ears to them?
People are constantly seeking for balance,
but how the balance will exist if the world is already tipped over?

A polychromatic butterfly waltzes by,
doing somersaults,
swiftly.

The streams (or the gushes) do find their balance eventually.
When the grueling journey marks out in a sudden swoop of elevation,
the streams are home again,
with the sun welcoming them in balmy beams.

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"Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime."- William Wordsworth, "Mutability"

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