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.
Light pools on the floor
傷風但唔投降
|
傷風嚟到好無禮， |
A cold turns up without invite, |
Snaw ower the Lomond
The snaw drifts saft ower Lomond’s breast,
Wi’ hills in white sae still and blest.
The loch lies calm in winter’s keep,
A silent crown where shadows sleep.
My Teddy Bear
My teddy bear
does not fix anything.
He sits where I leave him,
one ear slightly more tired than the other,
threadbare at the paw
that has known too much rubbing.
He has learned my shape
by patience alone.
The curve of my arm,
the way grief loosens at night
when no one is watching.
He does not ask me to be brave.
He does not confuse comfort with cure.
In the dark,
he is only weight,
only warmth,
only the quiet permission
冬心
|
寒夜無聲 |
Cold night, wordless— |
If You’re Dealing, I’m Folding
If you’re dealing the cards,
I’ve already stood up.
I don’t lose gracefully,
I just stop playing at all.
If you’re calling it healing,
Assume I arrived intact —
I’ve no interest in salvation
That requires me to crack.
If your glory needs contrast,
Then keep it — I’m fine in the shade.
I’ve learned what bright banners demand
From the women who carried the blame.
You asked for my faith.
I lowered the lights.
That’s as close as I came.
You wanted it darker.
We put out the flame.
They bless it and name it
And polish it clean.
Then nail it to bodies
To prove what they mean.
I watched all the candles
Burn thin, burn polite —
Such effort for comfort
That never arrived.
There’s a lover somewhere in this story, I’m sure.
There always is — quiet, convenient, obscure.
There’s a hymn for endurance,
A theory for pain.
It’s footnoted, indexed,
Repeated again.
I don’t wrestle with demons.
Mine queue and behave.
They apologise softly,
They know when to wave.
I didn’t ask permission
For blood or for sin —
I simply grew tired
Of letting it in.
You wanted it darker.
We finished the job.
They line up the bodies
And call it a cause.
The uniforms change,
But the posture’s the same.
I stood very still
And made no appeal —
There’s a power in choosing
Not to be saved.
If you’re dealing the ending,
Count me absent, my dear.
If you’re calling this mercy,
I’ll pass — I was clear.
I’m ready for nothing
That kneels or implores.
I stand where I stand.
That’s the answer you’re getting.
You wanted it darker.
I closed the door.
Ne’erday
The first licht creeps ower hill and brae,
A promise for the year tae stay.
The frost lies thick on field and stane,
Yet hope walks wi’ us a’ again.
The kettle sings its kindly tune,
As folk rise slow beneath the moon.
Wi’ guid black bun and whisky bright,
They bless the year in morning light.
The cauld wind lifts, the banners sway,
As Scotland greets her Ne’erday way.
Wi’ hearts made new and spirits gay,
We step intae the year’s first day.
Hogmanay
The auld year fades in frosty air,
Wi’ stars abune sae crisp and rare.
The loch lies still in winter’s keep,
While Scotland stirs frae quiet sleep.
The chimleys breathe a kindly reek,
As folk draw close, the fire tae seek.
Wi’ drams in hand and stories auld,
They warm the nicht against the cauld.
The first-fit steps across the flair,
A token o’ guid luck tae share.
Wi’ coal and bread and whisky fine,
They bless the hoose wi’ peace divine.
The bells ring oot ower hill and brae,
A silver cry for Hogmanay.
The bairns look up wi’ shining een,
At hopes the morn has yet tae gie’n.
The pipes begin their stirring tune,
A reel that dances wi’ the moon.
The heather nods in winter’s breeze,
As joy moves through the silent trees.
And when the nicht grows near its close,
Auld sangs arise like drifting snows.
Wi’ hands entwined, hearts licht and gay,
We greet the dawn o’ Hogmanay.
The Last Dawn of the Year
The final dawn in pale gold gleams,
A hush that holds our fading dreams.
The year bows low in winter’s air,
And leaves its blessings folded there.
2025
The year lies folded, heavy with its cost:
A quiet bowl, an unused leash at rest;
Small sounds still echo where a life was lost,
Warm trust once curled against my breathing chest.
Love learned its ending, not in flame but snow—
A house divided gently into air;
What we once named us loosened, let me go,
Not cruel, not kind, just finished, stripped and bare.
Yet grief, well-worn, has taught my hands their weight,
And sorrow set the ground beneath my feet;
What fell away has left me room to wait,
To stand unheld, unbroken, incomplete.
So from this cleared, unpromised, quieter start,
I lay new stone with a steadier heart.
唔小心咁
|
我坐得正 |
I sit up straight, |
El Cóndor Pasa
I’d rather be the wind at dawn,
Than a voice taught how to stay.
I’d rather feel the sky unclose,
Than count the price of every day.
I’d rather cross the mountain’s spine,
Than sleep where bargains hum.
I’d rather keep my name intact,
Than learn what gold becomes.
Yes, I’d rather be a shadow passing high,
Than a promise dressed in song.
I’d rather leave no mark at all,
Than be remembered wrong.
I don’t refuse the weight of earth,
Nor bread, nor flesh, nor fire.
But I will not bow my breathing
To a clock’s small, borrowed choir.
So let me circle once again,
Above what does not beg.
If I descend, it’s by my will—
Not pulled down by regret.
Yes, I’d rather be the wind at dusk,
Than a wing that learns the cage.
I’d rather cross the hush of things
And leave it unarranged.
My 3DXChat life 