They say you’ll find your love where the black and red rivers meet,

Like a final white handkerchief at the end of war,

Clinging fireback feathers in the breeze.

But it was in a torrential, monumental downpour,

That soaked through lilly white silk,

When she fell into the lemongrass and began a brand new lore.

Wide eyes, small mind, I thought, I knew her ilk

Living only to lean, to order, to sip tea,

Until she looked up, and up my spine curled a thrill.

So, I climb, so I find you through the centuries.

Are we doomed to stare, to care, and to dread,

That moment where we wither like yellow leaves?

Destined always to sever that red thread?

At once the air hissed, sandals blistered,

I felt the pull like a cord around my waist,

Sharp as a blade, light as a whisper.

Known always the push of the past, the tug of fate,

But as roofs are useless in a monsoon,

So too are starstruck, out-of-luck maids

I could see the seeds the moment the lotus bloomed,

Could see our ends in the very minute we’d meet,

Could see not only our own hearts consumed.

So, I climb, so I find you through the centuries.

Are we doomed, too late to fate, left for dead?

Only to love, to lose, and to bleed?

Destined always to sever that red thread?

It was a coward’s choice, a coward’s path;

She stared in wonder at the figure in the rain,

While he carried her away in the aftermath.

The monsoon split and crackled like a vein,

In my stomach a tangled ribbon knot,

A strange kind of clawing pain.

And one last time, my gaze and hers caught,

A spark of knowing, fleeting but deep,

A story that would not, could not be. 

So, I climb, so I find you through the centuries.

Are we doomed, to fight, a blight until there’s nothing left?

Only to be a single glance, a creeping reverie?

Destined always to sever that red thread?

A story never repeated grows deathly cold,

Like the metal glint of a concealed stave.

Still, scarlet bands around the tale we wove.

I wonder now, from the other side, if she knows what I gave,

How I nearly called out, but found myself mute,

How I swore we would not meet again this side of the grave.

For when we are only murmurs under curling roots,

Perhaps I will be a mist-tinged thought, a fond memory,

On the wings of a long forgotten dulcimer tune.

Yet I will climb, yet I will find you through the centuries.

Though we’re doomed, we’re not doomed yet,

I will cross the world, cross space and history,

One day, ‘round our little fingers, we’ll tie that red thread.

In this life, apart we live, love, and die,

We make our stories, we make our beds,

Mai Pen Rai,

We will lose but not forget.