I
have a dream;
to
wake up someday
in
a cottage far away,
tucked
into a corner of a mountainside
surrounded
by trees,
valleys
and peaks.
To
listen to the strains
of
red breasted robins
singing
harmony to
Tchaikovsky’s
Spring Interlude.
To
sit in a chair,
sipping
tea
as
white clouds
drift
and swirl
forming
a tendrilly cap
keeping
my wispy thoughts
safe.
I
have a dream;
to
wake up someday
in
a shack on a beach
and
feel my hearbeat
echo
the crash
of
waves on the shore.
To
listen,
as
the wind blows a raga
that
would send
Chaurasia
into raptures.
To
watch,
as
sunbeams
paint
a Warhol -esque
masterpiece
on the water.
And
inhale the scent
of
salt and the sea
that
settles in my soul.
But
for now
I
have to be content,
with
waking up
to
the smell
of
spent fuel,
roadside
garbage
AC
air
and dreams.
And
strain
to
hear my thoughts
or
my heart
over
the sound of the phone,
the
traffic and
downstairs
aunty’s TV.
And
leave half-drunk tea
to
form brown rings
inside
my cup.
and
watch as the plants
on
the window sill,
fade
slowly,
like
my dreams.
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