in fact so very late
amidst thick fogs
and rustlings of dry leaves
falling on the avenidas
the lighthouse blinks-
the perennial eye
of this city
the constant eye
of this city.
NOT ONE OF THOSE SUNDAYS
in Macau’s Luis de Camoes Garden
3-year old Chinese child approached me,
and asked, “Nei hai ping go, ah?”
Who are you?—a question no one can ever answer.
Yes, who am I?—ah, I was wrong when I thought
that Sundays are just all the same.
ALONG SAN MA LO AVENUE. MACAO, SOUTH CHINA
an expensive Louis Vuitton,
she passes by in front of a department store walled with mirrors.
As though walking on a runway,
she gives exaggerated details to her steps,
she slightly touches the rim of her sunglasses,
then she rubs her lips with her pinkie,
then she turns again.
She sees herself
but I see a Narcissus.
INCUBUS: IN GUANGDONG PROVINCE
wind is again feathered
with dust. Thick dust. Grey dust.
In Zhuhai, mountains and hills are bombed
for the sake of modernity.
Where will the gods dwell now?
Where will we now start and end our dreams?
and succumbs the sun.
The sleepy flame of the oil lamp
sways to the rhythm of my breath.
I watch the hillocks and trees
gently blur and vanish.
Now, my shadow is before me:
its silence is full of words.
Petra Seak of the University of Macau)
She defies all logic: folded umbrella
in howling rains.
Has she changed
or has she remained the same?
Wounds do not get healed: scars
are fossilized pains.
Limp gaze is the answer to every question
and words render no meaning at all.
Her eyes are fraught with rainbows
devoid of colors.
Ah, rains and tears
IN LOU LIM IOK GARDEN. MACAO
the rainbow, says an old man
to his grandson, is a bouquet
of flowers known only to grow
in nature’s secret garden.
The boy’s eyes glimmer
with wonderment and riddles.
Their smile negates time,
proving stronger than any seasons.