When reason is made of heart material,

are the fabrics destined to be shredded?

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And of leaves, big and small, what is there to be said, that they in falling die, or that in death they nourish the earth?

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Or is victory nothing more nothing less than the softest breeze, sweeping away the sun from a dry river bed and a withered heart?

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When I run out of questions that will not be answered

is that when death arrives

or when life begins?

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Would Mahagama Sekera be still alive

had he not left us at thirty nine?

 

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 Which secret library holds the fascinating tales that the little birds do not tell?

 

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And when all is said and done,

the files filed away and the book signed,

isn't meaning all about a word of appreciation from a beautiful woman?

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