East West Divide 2. Kalash. Bumbaret. 1992.

East West Divide 2.

Somehow in harking I find a connection.

Old work to new.

The somehow within me, I tried to explain,

has found a new home in this travelling.

Lawn sitting in music field.

Chess and sunshine.

The white skin sticks.

Black and white pieces parade openly,

while the subtle , no touching, game plays around.

Just language? I wonder, or more than that.

Caught in a web of my own choice making,

the repeated West in the book that I bury myself in.

Soft pages flick around and suddenly…an alien sound.

Jerking my head out I am sucked into the reality of other peoples’ conversation.

Sitting in shade talking.

The Western voices tainted somehow

in the art of forgetting where I am.

Not being where we are.


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