The Ring
I am my choices.
Yet my choices are never really mine.
Shared and torn between worlds,
of which some real,
other pretend to be …
and few … descended from other planets and distant heavens.
They all wrestle and tussle to define me
and they all discern …
that is I who define my choices,
my fables …
and … me!
I that is no longer me!
Big I … little me!
Yet when words can do no more …
but play,
stray,
and laughter blossom
on lips of rhymes and clay
on tears
on sand
and names from bliss
to flee
to stay
to write my name,
only then I know
my choice is real
my eyes are real
my candles
my whispers
my madness
and my play!
I am my cycles.
Yet my cycles belong to everyone.
And all tread shamelessly in my sacred patio
and none leave …
they stay
long after I put off my candles,
close up my stars,
my smile
and my thin door of hay.
My cycles as well define me
yet I failed to define my cycles.
They were here long before I landed
and they to remain long after I die.
Under the sun
words cannot play
yet there is a new game on
every misty day.
And if I to survive the funnel of madness
the tinted colour of grey,
then into the lions mouth
I shall leap
from a choice
that I made not
but came from rapture
that bears in its belly
my tears
my sighs
my power of mind
and my hallowed name!
Ammar Keylani
Vientienne, Laos
David Renous house
29th August 2008
