Pristine Poem by Shruti Goswami

Some where, at the touch of molten sun,
Rose a reflection;
A pristine house of white,
And fields of golden wheat,
Not in the Mediterranean, by the emerald sea.
It was there, where layers of dreams compacted,
And metamorphed into a rock,
Different dreams, different colours, different layers.
What peace it contained!
The house of white,
And I entered apprehensive,
Wishing almost that I was alone.
I was, and memories flashed,
Of the good old days,
We played hide and seek,
In the house and in the fields.
Now, it was empty, all dead and gone.
I was there, all alone.
And yet, there was a joy, peace, tranquillity,
Surrounding me, from every nook and corner,
As happy memories resurfaced,
And I was content,
At peace, and in love,
With all I had, and all that I did not,
For what I had, is a sweet dream,
What I have, is a blessing,
And what I do not, is my fantasy;
The fantasy, that instills life in every breath I take.
The rock now breaks,
In a stream of fine grain,
And the wind, away it takes,
All the locked dreams,
To a fantasy land.