• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 05
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Blurred Lines

A picture is before me.
What should I write?
I look at the man sans head
And then at the goose (or duck),
I know not what it is,
But each time my eyes turn
Towards the blurred blue sky,
The green of land and trees
And to their subtle reflection
In the water body.

I like blurred pictures.
An angel once asked me
For a picture of mine
And to my angel I
Sent the most blurred snap.

Fine sharp lines,
I like them not.
So certain they are
As death, I fear them,
While the blurred ones
Like misted life reveal not
What the next turn hides.

The goose (or the duck)
Had it been blurred,
You would have pardoned me
For not identifying it right.


Blurred Lines

Were the lines a little blurred
Of differences, distinctions,
Of boundaries, of nations,
Of identities, relations ...
Were the lines a little blurred!