green ‘pristan’

I just have to do it, because, like Alf says, “what if our planet explodes tomorrow”, I’ll be really pissed off.

Language doesn’t work in my favour right here, now.
Language has been used up so much that it looks like an old handkerchief:
Someone sneezes in it.
Someone wipes his tears with it.
Someone wipes his kid’s nose in it.
Someone loses it.
Someone finds it and thinks it’s ridiculous for people today to use a handkerchief (or poetic language). there’s “mt me @ 6 tnite” and SMS-ing…so…he decides to throw it away…again…
Someone else finds it…yet, again…and decides, it belongs to an old apron’s missing pocket.
He attaches it with a safety pin.
It hangs in there…like an old, used handkerchief.

I just cannot find a stainless, pure, new – yet meaningful – language to use for what I want to say.

Either way, language – like a handkerchief, whether I like it or not – has many positivities.
First and foremost, it changes (its use and purpose, not the fabric and seam).
A language lives and breathes like an open cut in your skin – with its germs and dirt, and crust, and missing molecules; and floating blood vessels that carry oxygen and life, and pain, and processes of healing and regeneration.
I choose to look at language (and its variation below) this way, and I hope she does, when I say this:

My eyes are shut, my mind at home,
I play and sing,
My heart befits in regal throne.

I’m not a princess, neither she – a queen,
one kingdom binds us, like a solar beam.
she’s light, I guess I’m sparkle.
she’ll guide,
the world and wonders I will marvel.

Of mountain dew, the drops I will converge,
Of river stream, as the waterfall I will emerge,
Of leaves of oak tree, the air she will steal,
For me – she’ll hold a tigress ransom for her zeal.

She’s as religion mine, what pendant’s to a chain,
yet, she’ll let no extremity to reign.
She’s garden full of lilac, parsley, mint,
A rosebush rich of fragrant petals I will sprint.
She’s my world, unbound and endless state,
where I unreservedly reside, an honoured mate.

She’s poems full of verse so wise,
She’s source of strength when all but weakness has capsized
She’ll smile when none but tears want to claw their way
She’ll brave ahead and take a punch, she’ll fight and flay.

She’ll let me go when all she wants is hold me close
She’ll watch me grow and live and see what life bestows
She’ll wait for me with ready warmth and calm,
with her safe embrace, a healing balm.

I dream of Pristan – a place so green and yet, unknown,
She’s made it green and peaceful and our own,
We’ll meet the two one day in our secret place
I’ll run and run and run to her embrace.

She’ll smell my hair and feel the past
I’ll close my eyes,
I’m home at last.

…to my mother…

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