Treasure Island

Aman Saa

(Assam, India)

Dreams


The twilight's incense has turned into a small heap;
the prayers are asleep
and God is making himself comfortable
in the wooden frames.
The stove still has some faint fire that shall eventually turn cold too
and in the entire village all I shall be left with is a dream
to walk through the cold night awake and alive.
I might be greeted by some dying wishes,
some thatched huts, some weakened souls,
collapsed walls, a haunted field weeping whole night.
He had smiled a joy, believing a cart was standing to carry him.
When the need to tell shall really arise you may just faintly touch me.

My grandchild ran after a floating balloon
an orphan self of mine in the merry go round,
he tried to get hold of a mirage.
The indebted dreams sold themselves in the bid,
slipping like sand, a moment and moments.
In the village fair, a love lost
and a memory returned back home
quietly on a bicycle;
giving grief a new name
in a small bag the flanks of the one lost
like a quaint small boat on the nights river
carrying a corpse whose last wish was to sail or perhaps to fly.

As on the roof of my Assam type house, rain writes indiscreet letters
addressing my ancient hamlet
and stabs on all my dreams that sculpt whole day beside me;
but are no more thus,
a trench of moments weaved from past memories survive.
When the march passes by the front lane
I shall offer my last respect and inscribe on their tombstone.
And when night follows,
I shall curl digging into myself for a company, a consoling human touch
little asked for a deep misery, an oasis of life in the field of withered flowers.

Submitted: Thursday, July 11, 2013
Edited: Friday, July 12, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

(None of the characters are fictitious, a resemblance is welcome)

- -

The poem itself took a long time, time is its story thus.

- -
*Assam type house is the traditional house built in assam with tin roof.

Comments about this poem (Dreams by Aman Saa )

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  • Chandana Khan (7/21/2013 9:37:00 PM)

    The twilight's incense has turned into a small heap;
    the prayers are asleep
    and God is making himself comfortable
    in the wooden frames. Very nice composition.a worked out expression.nicely done.the 1st line sets me.
    9 marks (Report) Reply

  • Passionate Reader (7/13/2013 8:14:00 AM)

    A truly beautiful poem! ! !

    and in the entire village all I shall be left with is a dream
    to walk through the cold night awake and alive.
    I might be greeted by some dying wishes,
    some thatched huts, some weakened souls,
    collapsed walls, a haunted field weeping whole night.

    You have a different writing style. i loved it :) (Report) Reply

  • Ramesh Rai (7/12/2013 8:13:00 AM)

    beautiful write my frnd. keep it up. plz. do not stop writing. my best wishes is always for you (Report) Reply

  • Shahzia Batool (7/11/2013 10:11:00 PM)

    a timeless write:
    I shall curl digging into myself for a company, a consoling human touch (Report) Reply

Read all 6 comments »

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