On distant shores we tasted the highs
Of sun-drenched days and cloudless silver skies
We caught her in a lie as she slept with the ghosts
Of the velvet nights we spent, on a golden coast
Coralline reminds me of the days
We took our final bows, screaming over the waves
She cried aloud, 'I fear I'm becoming numb
Call me in the night, it's just begun'
Rain traces over her face
She drifts away, a cloud leaving misty lace
She's clinging to what she always wanted to be
She's clinging to what she thinks is left of me
Coralline reminds me of the days
We took our final bows, screaming over the waves
She cried aloud, 'I fear I'm becoming numb
Call me in the night, it's just begun'
And she still believes, in words spoke long ago
But we both know...
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Saturday, December 05, 2009
We're All Someone Else, to Someone Else
from my sketchbook, 5.12.2009, 7:30 am
Thank you France, for leaving a legacy of good coffee here in Pondicherry. And thank you India for setting the scene. I'm sitting on the terrace of a cafe, some twenty meters from the waves crashing against the rocks of the sea wall, and beyond that, rolling, sparkling swells stretching out to a clear horizon, newly awoken sun rising gently into a hazy, cloud streaked sky. And occassionally a breeze wafts across the terrace, bringing the smell of morning pastries. And as I gaze out at the waves, surfable but for the threat of imminent death on the jumbled rocks lining the coast, I can see more than a dozen fishing boats, most high-prowed traditional longboats, crewed by four or five men, but also a tiny raft with a single fisherman casting his net, and a pair of small trawlers, circling endlessly the same location.
There's so much life here on the sea front. Last night, the promenade was flooded with locals. Food carts, toys being sold, and groups strolling along or sitting on the rocks chatting. And even this morning, as the sun rises, and the heat with it, there are scattered groups out on the rocks, watching the sea. A city's affair with her shorline. And here's a role-reversal. A local, or a man at least with the aiar of one, is standing outside the cafe, taking a picture of us Westerners who fill it. I guess we're all tourists really, at least in the observation of something different to ourselves.
Or maybe I'm just that photogenic.
Thank you France, for leaving a legacy of good coffee here in Pondicherry. And thank you India for setting the scene. I'm sitting on the terrace of a cafe, some twenty meters from the waves crashing against the rocks of the sea wall, and beyond that, rolling, sparkling swells stretching out to a clear horizon, newly awoken sun rising gently into a hazy, cloud streaked sky. And occassionally a breeze wafts across the terrace, bringing the smell of morning pastries. And as I gaze out at the waves, surfable but for the threat of imminent death on the jumbled rocks lining the coast, I can see more than a dozen fishing boats, most high-prowed traditional longboats, crewed by four or five men, but also a tiny raft with a single fisherman casting his net, and a pair of small trawlers, circling endlessly the same location.
There's so much life here on the sea front. Last night, the promenade was flooded with locals. Food carts, toys being sold, and groups strolling along or sitting on the rocks chatting. And even this morning, as the sun rises, and the heat with it, there are scattered groups out on the rocks, watching the sea. A city's affair with her shorline. And here's a role-reversal. A local, or a man at least with the aiar of one, is standing outside the cafe, taking a picture of us Westerners who fill it. I guess we're all tourists really, at least in the observation of something different to ourselves.
Or maybe I'm just that photogenic.
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