There has been an uprising,
staged by my mind’s random rambling.
I have given it much thought,
and yet I seem to end up distraught.
My dilemma in short is this,
I type, as I wrench open a can of fizz.
If Space is ideological,
and Architecture is philosophical,
Function is anthropological,
and Behaviour is sociological,
If culture is timeless,
and history is boundless,
If there is a meaning to a place,
and an experience in the space,
If my inspirations are to stem from indecision,
and then lead to some derailed communication,
If what I undertake,
must confuse and complicate,
If creativity is inherent,
and criticism is belligerent,
If the design is fastidious,
and the acclaim is sedulous,
If I am to think, of things to come,
and conjure an image, of ‘The way it is to be done’,
And yet if I can create for you a place to live,
a place to take and a place to give,
If you can see through my mind’s eye,
and nothing ever more is an eye’s spy,
If I present to you an edifice,
something simple, neither gaudy nor kitsch,
If I am to you, what you are not to me,
but this to you, what it is to me,
If you can feel and respect this place,
even in ephemeral time and space,
Then I ask you this, will I be satisfied,
knowing I have ‘succeeded’ after having tried?
Yet these schisms seem to pervade,
skirmishing their way through every mental blockade,
I do not know if the uprising has been quelled,
but of one thing I am certain...
My thirst sure has been quenched.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem