As if I am only a dying tree
Without any of those green leaves left on my head since autumn falls
Would you stay beside, still?
As if I am no more than infertile hill
Would you be my coarse grass that never complaining to grow?
As if I am the one who left behind
While that long dessert caravan reaches the far oasis
Would you be aware of the absences of mine, and going back to find?
As if I hold my tongue hardly, keep my self for screaming your name to ask
Is that you?
Who understand all the silent signs I never told anyone.
And as if the answer is yes,
Would you really choose to be together with me
Ignoring the risk heading us from that day forth?
So many questions answered
And many else forgotten
In truth, whenever we find an answer
It last for ourselves.
In truth, by means or not, whenever we abandon our right to question
We merely serve ourselve with an inquiry that have never begun.
Looking at the butterfly,
November 24th, 2012