republic day

let me be myself again,
before my other goes away.
way too far, blurred and rudderless,
drifting apart day by day.

there was a time when i;
my hands were small and fingers closed.
with speechless sounds and scene-less sights;
a child, then i was and others too old.

now that i see, say or hear.
what i wish, should i do?
when i live with you; and you.
shall i not ask, listen and do?

the sky is blue by day alone,
and sunset; yellow-orange at dusk.
lush green are the islands from above,
shipwreck red when left to rust.

the sky turns dark every night,
after a lemon sunset that's too sour to taste.
soon my greenery is your ashes; a shelter for a moment,
until the scenery slowly fade.

what if there's no light, sight or a people!
colourless, unseen nothing but vain.
before the light seize to reason,
let us simply be ourselves again.

pupurupus flames

Standing under the rain tree even after the rain stops is not an easy moment. Those tiny leaves shedding what is left of a sorrow smile never puts a flame away. Each drop adds fury to an angry fire that rise ablaze. When the flame is lit at the roots of the tree, which single drop is to blame?
The rain tree and many others were there all my life, like a nation of multi cultured people. Huge, old, uprooted and no bark at bottom at all. But still today it has the same tiny and as many beautiful leaves, like the many different yet respected people it had ages ago. Once bloom the beautiful crimson flames that never age like the traditions that once never failed to respect another.
A flame cannot begin or sustain without oxygen, heat and fuel together. Other than a natural cause, a simple single action is needed to begin a tiny bud of flame that grows into many blooming blossoms. Many fuel fall to smell the bright mesmerizing blooms keeping the proud flares abloom.