Wednesday, December 03, 2008

Batik, a poem

3 December 2008

These days, my hands are dirty
often, alternately orange, raging red
or indigo, depending on which image
I’m liberating. I imagine there’s someone
within my spheres of influence
who would be ill-disposed to appear
in public with dark half-moons
of dye in the beds of her fingernails,
the intricate swirl-tracings
on each fingertip, these signs of what I do,
who I am. When they fade,
the time has come to find another
medium by which Reality may find
the light, Shadows may be put to flight.

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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