Should we hate our enemy? Hate them for the sake of more hatred, which in turn allows them to hate us, we to hate them, and a gory but pleasing war to follow, so that nobody will remain to hate and that afterwards will come, by the very resentment, an once and for all solution. Do not hate them for the sake of poking out their eyes, or breaking their teeth, which I wish for earnestly; or of the final vengeance, a bloody one, perhaps a humiliation, a torture, even an obliteration, after everything was tried— persuasion, arguments, defense, and flight, but surely without turning the other cheek, not that.

March 27, 2020; July 23, 2021

The water cycle is a funny chain,
in that, from nuclear plants to beads of sweat,
it goes through any person we have met;
the flood that moved the ark is in the drain,
the blood in us was Julius Caesar’s stain;
evaporating from the wastes and fat,
condensing to the eyes from weeping wet,
so everything is washed away by rain;
I’m therefore solaced after having learnt
that when a droplet someday damps your locks,
you know it must have been my meager tear,
sublimed from snow, and in volcanoes burnt,
which flew for only you amidst the rocks,
and fell for you who never were my dear.

[Apr 18, 2021]

Many times I take some time composing music (or for that matter writing), and in a deep self doubt ask if not pester them of their value, people, connoisseurs or commoners, often impatiently say, “If you like to compose, then keep composing, and what’s wrong with it?” Very wrong. Art after all, many of them might claim, is therapeutic, healing the our wounds physical or metaphysical, while I maintain stiffly but obliquely that not all that is healing is a good, and not all that is good is healing, for I suffer when, suffering the suffering of others, creating good work so that they themselves again suffer squarely the pain when they appreciate it, in addition to what pain they already have, and therefore how am I writing for sake of healing those wounded, myself included, but not of suffering?

May 29, 2021

A subtle move of the violinist’s hands,
And the magnetic moment of electron,
A lonely conquer to some no man’s lands,
And the Great Wall and Parthenon’s perfection,
They are remarkable achievements, while
I seek a target closer but not smaller;
It’s in the newly-wedded couple’s smile,
And in an infant’s look of vivid color,
It’s in a sigh for unrequited wait,
In arms of father’s or in mother’s kiss,
And in the long hug at an airport gate,
In tears for soldier resting in the bliss;
I ask no statue, but find it enough
To be by someone loved, and be in love.

Feb 8, 2021


A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown, / whom Melancholy markèd for her own.

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