My soul is dyed in patterns of the past,
A batik thread through centuries of flame.
Each motif speaks of empires built to last,
Yet whispers loss beneath the woven name.
The wax resists the dye, like truth resists
The empire’s ink upon the scholar’s scroll.
Yet in each fold, a sacred myth persists—
A lotus blooming from the fractured whole.
......
I walk the edge where silence meets the word,
A blade of dusk between the now and then—
Each breath a question, each footfall unheard,
Yet echoing through minds of sleeping men.
The jasmine wilts beneath the neon sky,
Batiks unravel in the market’s blaze,
While puppets dance and prophets pass us by,
Their shadows stitched in time’s dissolving haze.
......
I walk the edge where silence meets the word,
A blade of dusk between the now and then—
Each breath a question, each footfall unheard,
Yet echoing through minds of sleeping men.
The jasmine wilts beneath the neon sky,
Batiks unravel in the market’s blaze,
While puppets dance and prophets pass us by,
Their shadows stitched in time’s dissolving haze.
......
My soul is dyed in patterns of the past,
A batik thread through centuries of flame.
Each motif speaks of empires built to last,
Yet whispers loss beneath the woven name.
The wax resists the dye, like truth resists
The empire’s ink upon the scholar’s scroll.
Yet in each fold, a sacred myth persists—
A lotus blooming from the fractured whole.
......