Deliverance

Out of the kaleidoscope colours of memories,
out of the mist of wistful days gone by
- as if they had never been lived -
out of the winds of wishes of a better tomorrow
a scarred, dark-brown tree trunk rises,
watched and guarded by the cenotaphs of the past,
and by ancestors who used to laugh and be loved.

Rooted in the tides of change,
driftwood in quicksand,
but still and steady.
It rises out of sight.
No leaves are on it.
It rises and rises
into a clouded and infinitely far away sky,
where the sun only shines in the morning after the rain.

Up, up the tree!

The cenotaphs dissolve into rays,
dancing warmly, mercifully,
but fading away hurriedly.
The sun sets as we climb a dream.
Holding on to it is our only way of hope;
away from the colours into an uncertain life -
into the nakedness of change.