All posts by Jian Lam

Windy Days

It’s windy, and the breeze bites my skin

Like icy teeth, and I wish that there was someone

To share this with me

It’s cold


The bridge is old, older than my pap, even

Aged, creamy, beige wood, full of kinks and curves and imperfections

Like our lives

It’s cold, and windy too


I’m in a watercolour painting

The gunpowder sky, the harsh bone white cliffs, the green hairs of grass, the deep blue river

Everything feels flat, and painted on canvas, a rustic look

It’s cold, and windy, and bleak too


The cliff and the outcrop of rock, standing there since

Time immemorial

Monuments to the ever present, never tiring will and force of time


The warm darkness

Arms to cuddle in, a shoulder to nuzzle against

So near, yet so very far away


Pink Lilies

Lilies crown the few square metres of dirt

A carpet of pink

The wooden box

The soil, fresh, wet, smelling like earth

2 or 3 metres below

Some feet tread carefully

Over the flowers

The little ones don’t care

Trampling on the carpet

‘I was what you are, you will be what I am.’

Some of us know it

That feeling

Of slipping away, fading into dust

Some of us don’t

Anaesthetized or sleeping

None of us can run away from it

We can delay it

It doesn’t always end in a wooden box

Or in an urn

Or in fragrant bandages





Jian Lam 9F