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Me, no mysterious as the man in the iron mask. You need not to find the truth underneath my being. Me became the prisoner of of love. No hate. Just that. And peace. Yes. All of one. Me, not a dreamer of a metaphorical sense.

Me not a historian and philosopher to find the truth and to resolve the mystery of the pasts. As me, myself are under the custody of my creator and my heritage. As me not a prisoner of hate, even takes advantage of a salvaging faith.

Me, one will never you can see the face, even it's not hidden in a mask of black velvet cloth, though me loves to wear black. What is me is a transparent being, like drops of the morning rain, goes to the roots of blooming roses.

Me not a jailer of human discrimination, only with hopes me keep going. My identity is me doing, is the yesterday of this morning. But not this mourning, over a dying heritage, me doesn't want to leave, rotting.

Me not be the subject of different books, research and teaching, me see through how the morning comes to end when the dusk turns to evening, every time. But me like to be a flower, every time it blossoms sees the the rain pouring.

Skypod, Kota Kinabalu. 10 Aug 16. 2:10Pm

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016

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