echo Written by Koh Ze-Wen
this is the anomaly of thought:
foreign fingers and foreign smiles
are brighter, sharper,
past the anonymity of a counter
romance lent by distance
of a room bursting with intention
paints camaraderie in manners
domestic in mundane
births ideas
from people
love
from longing
a step behind a desk can be
a step up a pedestal
and every statue is a David
if the audience
sees marble in skin
weaves capes from cloth
the least trustworthy person you can ever meet
is yourself
and the biggest lies you can ever hear
whisper from familiar lips
(your lips)
but your greatest gift is
your eyes
which see patterns in chaos
your ears
which hear kindness in apathy
your heart
which hopes so brightly, so hard;
it is almost cruel
cruel; that the shopkeeper’s smile
was a sale for her paycheck
and not a barter
for yours
cruel; that strangers on a bus
are tired, are sad
and the swiftness of a proffered seat
indicates nothing
past the instincts of the trained
everyone’s planet spins on an axis
and trust me, my dear, the axis
is not you
it is them
you know this; because yours
spins thus,
too.
but what is life without lies?
the world is not beautiful
for waterfalls and canopies
of omnipotent design
it is a child’s wonder
a mother’s embrace
a blind man’s sight
humans see warfare;
and think not of gunfire and blood,
but leap:
for dirt-coated fingers in the dust
for a faint heartbeat, in debris
we see friends, family
in dead eyes, shallow breaths
and cry
for the wisp of a thing
that left, left, left,
yet a whisper, in our ribs (the traitors),
says here, here, here—
irrational (real).
we see grass, and sunshine,
and think: friend;
for its tenacity
for the character
it does not possess
the beauty is not in them:
it has always been
always will be
in us.
things, in this funny (human) world,
gain names
like moss, on a stone,
wood, we say, must have character
for scientists: lignin, tissues, cellulose
and us, the children; dumb, stubborn, (dreamers,)
wisdom, strength, fortitude
i wish to be a cloud, she says
light— airy— free
my dear, you are already the cloud
it is heavy, and damp, and most importantly:
dead.
the freedom
was crafted by you
a fiction made real from
sheer strength of belief
humans are a contradiction.
we watch a world fractured
by volcanoes of vitriol
and earthquakes of uranium
say: this is great!
see: art, knowledge, love
corners of a darkroom
where light has made roots.
(the first rule of photography:
lens lend light.)
later; we watch plains basking under the polestar
penguins dive into cerulean glitter
and in turn, say,
this is not enough.
(it is never enough)
mould towers of steel from clay-formed bones
raise sun-kissed jets with the speed of our fingers
build, assemble, make,
where mother nature has failed.
to be human,
is to create.
dissatisfaction our curse
imagination our blessing
give, give, give: the state of our existence
’til we are run empty of our atoms
if not concrete and blood,
then words, thoughts, ideas
droplets of romance
from the kisses of spring rain
tendrils of history
from the beggar’s tired eyes
we fall in love with strangers
for the turn of their smile, the flutter of their lashes
and fall in love with places
for stories we cannot see;
driven by the urge, always,
to make something
of nothing.
i do not disagree:
clouds are beautiful.
but let us not forget:
we are the clouds.
