. . . ever since yuh.
Some feelings never die,
They breathe through you and the cosmos itself.
They are born in June, maybe July,
But they live on, beyond days.
However it ends,
There is nothing as bitter-sweet as a love story,
With darling words unsaid
And calling passions unserved
That become the endless dreams of the passing days,
And the warm reflexions of the coming years.
I remember the butterflies and the tingling bells,
The poems and the spectacles
The contradictions and the harmonies,
I remember the seven songs
And the promise.
Everything was real,
There was no game in our games.
But then it ends,
Not like every good thing ends,
But like an interlude between notes
As we savour this rhythmic silence
With every ounce hope
To find the last harmony.
M. V. Echa
Author’s Note: “… We live in a precarious world and man is becoming an endangered species. We are barred from profitable introspection of our existence and day-to-day experiences by the urgent need to survive, by the burdening expectations others have of us and the galling standards set up by the society and cultural milieu we find ourselves.
Nevertheless, we must hold humanity in a wide embrace; we must keep listening to the whisperings of nature, for the desert winds form the beautiful barchan dunes.
Words remain our most prevailing vehicle of expression; the most effective tool for the categorization of our various and varying feelings whether love or hatred, fear or courage, pain or ecstasy etc.
Thus, we must avail ourselves the use of the power of language to get in touch with our soul, to stand in and out of our experiences, to paint on the canvas of thought the delightful portrait of our persistent reality, and to daintily spool the threads off the bobbin of knowledge.
There is miracle in writing, for which I am not indebted to my vain pride. I owe the words penned on the fragile pages of [these articles]… to the rain of reflexions that fall in due season, though not in spring.”