Myth

Myth

These days in your wake

There is a myth that you
Turned a fishing village
Into a modern garden city
When what you actually
Did was not to abandon,
But to believe when
no one does.

That is your single-mindedness.

=====

So it's pouring, in most parts of this washed new fishing village, and our hearts are like fishes leaping and wriggling in tiny pools of emotions. But more so near where the man,  now resting eternally, rises one last time, in his last hour's journey. In the rain, there is a quiet calm after the solemn music and shouts of "Lee Kwan Yew! Lee Kwan Yew!", while the cannons sounded their salutes. I heard a voice, though timidly faint, breaking forth from a restrained cry, "May the music continue."

The fishermen have a field day, in their new white uniforms, which used to be pristine.

A mother's (or specifically my mum's) wisdom: "He must be a smart man. Even on his passing, he is trying to "brain-wash" the new generations, teach them a thing or two about hardship in the heavy rain."   

I know, like this piece, life is filled with contradictions. Truth, in its very nature, is complicated. As with complexity, there are doubts, overlapping facts and myths.

P.S.: Now, I am beginning to think that it is some sort of artistic cheat codes to write about an important person's passing. Another myth?

Another passing I value: http://www.channelnewsasia.com/news/entertainment/swedish-nobel-literature/1748142.html

In memory of Tomas Transtromer, I am sharing again one of his work on this space:

A Winter Night (excerpt)

The storm puts its mouth to the house
and blows to get a tone.
I toss and turn, my closed eyes
reading the storm's text.

The child's eyes grow wide in the dark
and the storm howls for him.
Both love the swinging lamps;
both are halfway towards speech.

==

Nay, I would never write like that...