Treasure Island

Bijay Poudel

(10th june,1991 / Khotang, Nepal)

My Dreams

Where cripples can dance, dumbos can sing,
The son of a peasant can be the king,
Where rabbits can wait for snails that crawl,
And them snails spare the insects that fall.
Don’t ask me what then snails will eat?
For onto my dreams, they happily fit.

Where you don’t have to falter, to ask out ladies,
And these ladies don’t have their strict daddies,
Where dance parties in towns don’t have muscular guards,
And you can sneak in easily, without your invitation cards,
And inside that party, you see two kings,
Dancing together as a blacksmith sings,
And the blacksmith doesn’t have huge machines to mend,
And the kings often call him, “my dear friend.”

Where among these kings you can walk free,
Jumping around, chewing your gum.
And the soldiers of kings are equally happy,
For now they know that no war shall come.

Don’t ask me now to throw off these lies,
For these are my dreams, that shine in my eyes.

Where I can return my home, at any hour,
And my mama and papa are planting flowers,
And when they see me, they happily grin,
And my mamma says, “Sonny you have grown thin.”
But my papa interjects and asks me to bath,
“Sonny you must have trodden a dustier path”
And I convey them, what I’d done throughout the day,
About my girl, and what the kings had to say,
And then my mamma brings me porridge and creams,
Don’t ridicule me now, for these are my dreams.

Where I fall asleep, as my mamma strokes my head,
And my papa carries me up to my bed,
And after a while, I have a nightmare,
About a land, so far from here,
With so many people and gigantic towers,
My parents are far and are not planting flowers,
The rabbits tread upon the snails on ground,
And inside them exploded guts, some insects are found.
The blacksmith and the king never shake hands,
And I know that, they can never be friends.
And if I ‘hii.’ a lady in town,
She calls me uncivil, dirty and clown.
And somewhere inside a dark, silent room,
I see myself unkempt, ungroomed.
Afore a screen, hitting some keys,
Writing about a dream, no one there sees.

... Afore a screen, hitting some keys,
Writing about a dream, no one there sees.

Submitted: Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Edited: Wednesday, February 12, 2014

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