Who else would not love his own image?
Even the crude Narcissius loved himself
in a pool of water.
We feed and worship our image
from the crude shadows in the still waters
to the bright reflections of the silver mirrors
and to the wise manipulations over
the lenses of the camera men and women.
We pose and change suits
giggle at the transfer of life
into the shiny papers and borrowed colours
tailor our dead sizes,
enlarge these still pictures
in frames and hang them on walls.
We pay the high cost of joy
of our tailored image
stamped on papers and tucked on wood
kissed by glasses and adhesives.
And never will the price alter
the rising and ebbing tide
of the ego`s worship
to our own human form.
(taken from my first book of poems,
" A Pulse for my Country People", p. 51)
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