Red Cliffs
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There is no mirror in Mirissa

The sea is in the leaves

The waves are in the palms

Old language in the arms of the casurina pine

Parampara, parampara

From generation to generation

The flamboyant a grandfather planted having lived through fire lifts itself over the roof unframed

The house an open net where night concentrates on a breath on a step

A thing or gesture we cannot be attached to

Just the long, the short, the difficult minutes of night's phenomena where even in darkness there is no horizon without a tree just a boat's light in the leaves

A last footstep before formlessness (Michael Ondaatje 1998)
Red Cliffs
Red Cliffs
Red Cliffs
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