Where Words Weave Worlds A space where poetry, stories, and imagination intertwine—crafting beauty, depth, and transformation in every line.
The Lomond wakes in gentle shine,
Wi’ springtime licht across the line.
The breeze comes saft, the shadows thin—
A day that warms ye frae within.
The birks grow green by stane and shore,
Their leaves like whispers evermore.
The loch lies calm in silver sway,
A mirror for the length o’ day.
The hills shed winter’s lingerin’ hue,
As brighter skies come glintin’ through.
A quiet joy begins tae rise—
Spring breathes its peace ower land and skies.
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月到簾西燈半昏， |
Moonlight reaches the west of the curtain, |
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晨光輕輕揭開窗紗， |
Morning light parts the veil of the window, |
They say Lady Godiva rode naked through the town,
but I do not hear scandal in the story.
I hear silence.
A woman loosening gold from her hair,
letting it fall like a second cloak,
not to tempt—
but to refuse.
Streets hold their breath.
Wooden shutters close like careful eyes.
Even the horses walk softer,
as if hooves know
when courage passes.
She rides without armor,
yet the air around her
is steadier than steel.
Not shame—
never shame.
Only the strange authority
of a woman who understands
that sometimes the body itself
is a language
power cannot command.
Her hair moves with the wind,
long as a river remembering mountains.
Her back is straight.
Her gaze unbroken.
And in that quiet procession
through narrow streets and watching hearts,
the world learns
a dangerous truth:
that dignity,
when worn without fear,
can make even a naked woman
untouchable.
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花未開時 |
Before it blooms, |
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我唔係為喧嘩而生。 |
I was not made for noise. |
Midweek finds its pace,
clouds linger above the roofs—
streets hum soft and slow,
hours stretch like gentle thread,
Wednesday walks a steady line.
They say I was the first mistake—
a hand reaching where light had barely cooled.
But the garden was already listening
for the sound of a question.
Morning leaned through the fig leaves
like a secret learning breath.
The earth smelled of rain and warm skin,
and the river curved
as if it knew a body would one day follow it.
I was not lonely.
Loneliness had not yet been invented.
But silence had weight,
and the fruit shone
like a thought refusing sleep.
He slept beside me—
Adam, gentle as uncarved wood—
dreaming the calm dream
of someone who had never chosen.
Yet something in my ribs remembered fire,
a quiet ember
where the maker’s breath had rested.
Curiosity is only the soul
testing its own wings.
So I touched the red skin of the world.
Not hunger—
no, it was recognition.
The first bite
was a door opening inward.
Light shattered into knowledge,
and suddenly the wind had names:
desire, exile, mercy, time.
They say I doomed us.
But listen—
even now the orchards bloom from that moment.
Every poem begins in that mouthful.
Every lover who reaches across the dark
is answering my courage.
I was the first to step beyond obedience,
the first to feel the horizon pull.
If there is blame,
let it be this:
I loved the world
before it knew
how dangerous love could be.
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花間一線影 |
A thread through the flowers— |
Strange—
how those who suffered in the same cold room
leave with a warmth no summer ever taught.
I have seen it:
two shadows crossing winter fields,
boots heavy with thawing mud,
breath rising like pale incense
into a sky that would not answer.
The wind speaks louder there.
It combs the ribs of broken fences,
makes hollow bottles sing in the ditches,
teaches the dark to whistle through bone.
And still—
two people walking that road together
begin to move in one quiet rhythm.
A hand offered not from joy
but from knowing.
A silence
that does not wound.
Contented hearts drift softly elsewhere—
bright rooms, easy laughter,
windows open to the smell of bread and orchards.
They are kind, perhaps.
But their voices float like petals
over water too calm to remember storms.
Those who have shivered beneath the same night
speak another music.
Low.
Unadorned.
Like embers breathing under ash.
Because when the world grows narrow as frost
and the dark presses close as a lover’s whisper,
two small flames
leaning toward each other
learn
how to burn
without fear.
It’s Monday morn, I stretch me spine,
Me breath goes slow, the world feels fine.
I bend and twist, shake off the fog—
Spring’s in the air, and I’m back on the log.
I flop me mat beside the door,
Me hamstrings moan, me elbows sore.
But up I goes, no time to slack—
It’s Monday, love, I’m bendin’ back.
The buses roar, the pavements shake,
But still I breathe for calmness’ sake.
The city hums, I find me grin—
A bit o’ peace in all that din.
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你話門開， |
You said the door was open |
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