journey through

The lone tree The lone tree knows, that he is alone on the barren hill. He knows that on his mound he is both ruler and subject. The lone tree never fears lightning or the dry December sun. He sucks his water from the rough clump of rocks and harnesses the clouds before they even arise from the horizon. He has learnt with time that dew would be enough to get him intoxicated for the day and give him the strength to shake away the blizzards and the tough winds. The lone tree knows no other birds but eagles and vultures. Just like them he knows how to survive, and he knows the best way is by being at the top. He knows there he won’t jostle for water with anybody or quarrel over resources. He has the whole hill to himself, to command and to request, to rule and to conquer. He has decided not to cast his seeds to the steep earth below, but to withhold them lest he is forced to give up his whole life to a bunch of saplings who will ultimately push him off his mound. But the lone t

Do you know where? Tell me, when you go roaming in your dreams and fantasies, have you ever seen it? Do you know where the sun shines everyday and the flowers bloom all year round? Do you know where fairytales come to life? Do you know where music never ends and the powerful breeze doesn’t cease? Tell me when you find it, so I can come with you. I am tired of being an inmate in a world that has refused to believe in the impossible, plastic songs and synthetic emotions. Do you know where life grows outside the front door, birds cry when you do and sing when you do? Ever been to the place where drawings come to life and the clouds never grey? A place where grass is ever green and the sun always shines? I want to yield to the power of the mighty waterfalls and the bubbles of the spring of dreams. Show me the door and I shall walk in with you and we shall live our wildest dream. Show me the way and I shall follow, the path twisted with the blue of the orchids and scented with the in

Dear virgin land Dear virgin land, you who has never been cultivated, pray hard that the metallic hoe does not land on your crispy soil. Wish not that the coarse hands of the industrious farmer lands on your virgin lands, for in you he will plan seeds of discord and seeds of praise. The farmer will take care of you just so you take care of him. The day that hoe lands on you is the day you lose your free will and become a slave. Pray that he doesn’t come with his chain-saw to cut off your trees, or with pickets to dig out your established roots. No matter how well the prospects of patches corn and acres of wheat may excite you, do not let him get to the heart of your existence. He will only quit the day you can no longer churn out produce like you did before. He will turn you into a wasteland after milking your bowels dry then you will realize your pride has gone with the wind. You will stand naked for all to see many seasons later and jealousy will fill your heart when you see

In the night of day It always takes a dark night for the stars to shine brighter and a rainy day to see the rainbow in the horizon. The parable of the sun, you said it rose in the morning and set in the evening, but all through the day, it lights up the world of the poor and the rich. It is equivalently bright to the loving and the broken-hearted. It doesn’t discriminate between the shy and the daring. The sun, you said, goes down with satisfaction that it brightened the day, but did you think of the moon? Ever thought of that circle that gives life to the night? No you haven’t. Its power is always looked down upon but it is the very same one that pushes away the sun. The moon is ignored because when it shines everybody is dead asleep, but does that ever stop it? Does it ever quit? We always thought, nay hoped, that tomorrow will be just like yesterday and the day after. We all live hoping the sun will shine every day and we will never know the night. But remember, that joke t

I shall not raise a hand They told me sometime when I was young, that a man was he whose fist was tougher than iron. They told me a man was one whose cough would send everybody scampering under the bed and the table. He was one who had control of his home, nobody would laugh without him doing it first and nobody would dare say without consulting the almighty king of the long beard. They taught my ears to hear women scream deep in the night and my eyes to see them tending to wounds on the face and swollen eyes. Everybody in their childhood dreamed of being men so they could revenge on their harsh mothers and the little girls who would never spare them a second glance. But my old man taught me different. What honour and prestige do you gain from fighting one who would never fight back? Does pride ever sing in your heart when you see fear in the place of love? Are a fist and a slap really worth the loss of magic and charm in the eyes of she you once loved? He told me he had never r