Welcome to my world of dreams where imagination and reality, fancy and truth, laughter and tears move hand in hand. I will let you have a glimpse at the share of my own sky, sometimes sunshine bright, sometimes with dark cloud and gloomy rain. I am that memory which will remain with you as a serene glow of moonlight. I am that thought which will nurture your soul like a whisper of mountain breeze. I am that dream which will haunt your being like a ferocious gushing brook.
Coleridge, you fever bird You sang out last night!
As I lay closing the day like a book groping for a bookmark named sleep, you sang your grief.
Why do you cry like one possessed? It makes weird sounds against my window panes. A moist breeze blows I wiggle my toes, rearrange my sheets for warmth, my insomniac eyes long to watch your dream. Every now and then, I tap my veins to eavesdrop and hear the throbbing of my blood-flow checking for a rift through which a giant tree can grow building a nest for your Albatross. Your opium eyes sprout wings, beat on my breasts and I become a giant
tree building house for those lost dreams , comforting them to creep and climb my body.
A few years ago I became a tree. I suckled mother Earth my roots growing firm and strong spreading nourishing I grew into branches, my hands became leaves dancing in freedom blooming reaching up to the sky. The cloud peeped into my brown eyes And fell in love.
Since yesterday the soil is loosening around my roots. The vine that clasped my waist has fungus. It’s spreading on to me. The silence of the soil is bone chilling. They said, trees have lives, but No one could hear me when I shouted! Those conifers or the moss on the wall No one heard!
Maybe, if I close my eyes and count till ten It will all prove to be a bad dream.
Birds are no longer in harmony in my sky. Of course the morning is nice; yet of course the morning is without sunlight. I wait with eyes pinned to the mobile screen with waiting. The warm wrap of your hand around
my shoulder, your thoughts in my shadow, your eyes hatched wings beat on
my breasts. I think of you in a most direct
way. There is an urge to be your
daughter in the next birth. To depend on your warmth.