November. Specks of dust and water


November mornings.
When the sun-kissed floating water particles
dance their way towards the familiar bathroom mirror,
fervently tap dancing, languorously waltzing, comradely folk dancing,
fogging up the glass
While the unrelenting slanting sunrays piercing through the bathroom window
knight me,
So that a whole new reflection can emerge
when the autumnal air carries away the last speck of water.
Sense of self ever in the making.

November days.
When the sun-kissed floating dust particles
join the whirlwind whisking up amber sycamore leaves,
spiralling incessantly.
Cosmic insignificance and evanescence weaving a cautionary reminder
that knights are meant to serve and protect their own,
and that I better uphold my anointed knighthood
before my time is up,
before the pilgrim wind carries the last speck of dust away into infinity.
Self-acceptance ever in the making.

November nights.
When I look to the cloudless marine-blue sky and am reminded
that I am
but a speck of stardust in the horizonless cosmic ocean.

– Patricia



Wilted flowers, empty alleys, pilgrim winds and grey tombstones
Holds the hidden cemetery for the melancholic soul.
Memories of passing moments are engraved on each tombstone
For the person who revisits, feeling evanescent, null.

He travels the world forgetting some of them, but he returns.
Every now and then, he visits and remembers who he was,
What he chose, what he experienced, all the people whom he met
And that’s when he stops. He feels like it all was yesterday. 

He looks at them with mixed feelings: happiness, sorrow, regret.
When did they all turn to cinder? Nostalgia. And something else.
Realising what they’re made of, he feels powerless. For they
Are all dust—just like his being. Might not see another day.

Crestfallen, he starts to ponder on his life and what he is.
In the silent cemetery, lonesome winds scatter dead leaves.
Cemetery for life’s moments—numbers growing every day,
Until only one large tombstone—with his name—will take their place.

– Patricia


Another day comes to an end,
Another year of my life.
I look down at my hands again
And stare in desolation.

The life I build with these two hands
And with the power of my mind
Just seems to pass me by so quick
Without the presence of my heart.

I feel the moment, though I don’t,
Only deceived by my own eyes.
I live and breathe and my heart beats
And yet fulfillment I can’t find…

Another day comes to an end,
Another year of my life.
Yes, I’m the birthday girl today,
But I won’t be tomorrow…

– Patricia


Some seek great fortune in their life on Earth,
Some want to perish as soon as they’re born.
Others embrace their journey with delight,
And others live with evil thoughts, deformed.

Some only seek the power which they think
Will give them something meaningful to hold,
Some seek the praises all others can give
And never stop to question what they’re told.

Some dare to dream and act upon their dreams,
Believing in themselves and having faith.
Others—so sceptical—think life only deceives
And feed their gloomy thoughts until too late.

Some seek the moment, never thinking twice
What legacy they’ll leave in this huge world,
While others never seem to have the time
To stop and smile, to cherish what they behold.

And only one or two in this enormous world
Won’t be forgotten when the sun of life then sets.
Ephemerality—the seal of passing mould,
Posterity—the blessing few possess.

– Patricia


Eager to leave a trace behind on Earth,
Pharaohs and emperors, conquests, battles and wars.
Humans all try to leave their mark within this world:
Enticing paintings, stories to be told.
Music which purifies the burdened souls,
Ending the pain of being only mould.
Ruins of ancient works which fade away,
All memories of once glorious days,
Long gone and never to be seen again,
In passing winds becoming only clay.
They come and go—only a passing breath,
Yesterday: here, tomorrow: certain death.

– Patricia