|
返工門口過， |
I pass the office door, |
星期五最識玩
Her Awakened Fire
My pulse stirs softly where the shadows gleam,
A hush that blooms beneath my quiet breath.
Desire moves through me like a secret stream,
A living spark that wakes the world from death.
It rises slow, a warmth beneath my skin,
A tide that calls me deeper into flame.
No borrowed will, no voice that draws me in—
This longing bears no tether, mark, or claim.
It is my own: a fire self‑begun,
A rhythm born from heart and bone and air.
It glows like dawn before the rising sun,
A whispered vow that only I can bear.
In this bright ache, I stand in sovereign grace—
Desire my crown, my breath, my sacred place
白氣破曉
|
寒冬破曉 |
Cold winter sunrise |
Revolution
It does not begin with shouting.
It begins with a woman
who no longer explains herself.
The banners come later—
first there is the stillness
after belief has finished breaking.
I have watched empires
collapse from the inside of a sentence.
A pause.
A refusal to nod.
They call it unrest
when the old stories stop working.
They call it danger
when the mirror answers back.
But this—
this is only the body remembering
its own grammar.
No drums, no fevered crowds.
Just a chair pulled closer to the light.
Just a hand that will not sign
what it does not mean.
You want a revolution?
It will not wear a uniform.
It will wear silk, or wool, or nothing at all.
It will arrive on time
and leave without apology.
The guns rust.
The speeches fade.
What remains
is the quiet rearranging of power
inside the chest.
And when they ask
who led it—
you will smile, slightly,
as if the question itself
is already obsolete.
星期三・等緊週末
|
星期三行到半路， |
Wednesday finds me halfway through, |
Epiphany
The star burns bright in morning gold,
A sign the ancient prophets told.
It leads the wise through desert air
To find the Child in humble care.
The gifts they bear in silence gleam—
Gold, myrrh, and frankincense that stream
With meaning deep and wonder true,
A homage born of light made new.
The stable glows with holy fire,
A warmth no winter can retire.
The world, once lost in shadow’s keep,
Awakens from its restless sleep.
So let our hearts like lanterns shine,
For love has crossed the mortal line.
On Epiphany’s bright, sacred morn,
The Light of all the world is born.
The Guiding Star
The guiding star in silence burned,
A beacon for all hearts that yearned.
It led the wise through midnight far,
And crowned the sky with hope’s bright star.
On My Legs
My legs know things
my mouth does not confess.
They remember the pause
before a door is opened,
the small cruelty of choosing
to linger.
They begin at the hip
where intention gathers—
not hunger,
not need,
but the calm decision
to be seen.
Thighs:
a language learned slowly,
muscle and warmth
holding their line
as if restraint were a virtue
worth practising nightly.
I do not rush them.
They have never rushed anyone.
Knees—
so often mistaken for submission.
In truth, they are thresholds.
What bends there
may rise again
with more authority.
Calves tighten when I walk away.
This is not accident.
Desire follows motion,
not invitation.
And my ankles—
narrow, deliberate—
carry the quiet arrogance
of balance.
They know I will not fall.
They know I do not need to.
If you look long enough,
you will understand:
my legs are not asking.
They are allowing.
And allowance,
as you are learning,
is the most intimate act
of all.
A Frozen Monday Morn in London
The Thames is stiff as old bloke’s grin,
The frost’s crawled up the rooftops thin.
The streets go crunch beneath yer stride—
A Monday cold enough to bide.
Mirkwood, the Shadowed Greenwood
A forest vast where ancient whispers cling,
Its branches weave a twilight deep and wide.
Once Greenwood fair, beneath a gentle spring,
Now Mirkwood stands where darker spirits bide.
The spiders spin their silver nets of dread,
The pathways twist like secrets lost to time.
Yet Elven halls in northern leaves are spread,
A realm of starlit grace in shadow’s climb.
The Necromancer’s breath has stained the air,
Yet still the roots remember sunlit days.
And when the Ring is broken, light and fair
Returns to crown the wood in golden haze.
So Mirkwood waits, both perilous and grand—
A living dream in Middle‑earth’s green land.
Light pools on the floor
Light pools on the floor,
quiet hums through resting rooms—
no clocks call the day,
windows open to still air,
Sunday breathes in tender hush.
傷風但唔投降
|
傷風嚟到好無禮， |
A cold turns up without invite, |
My 3DXChat life 