Sometimes, In the intimidating proximity of shadows You want to retreat Into the very sensations of the body From which you had wished to escape. But the vanishing road escarpment, The artifice of colonial history, Leaves you somewhat disembodied And agitated as you reach The Ascension burial ground.
Looking at the stone slab Under which Wittgenstein lies, You wonder if logic and mathematics Have any foundation? And if they do, Then where does truth lie? Surprised by the body and mind dichotomy You transfigure places, You transmute ideologies, You create an incorporeal world For the spirit of things to come.
