An Indian Dream
*Editor's Note: Originally published on Writer's Cafe.
I will not collect the remains.
My friend told that my memories are like wonderland
And Alice can be the name of a boy.
During fever I don't want to taste medicine
And you know besides the American dream,
Which has overshadowed the world,
In a corner lies my Indian dream.
Who knows if what happened was real?
But I can still taste your saliva in my mouth
And the warmth of that kiss, that made me ill for a long time.
Every time when a bird grows wings,
A new dream is born,
Dreams are like reality,
They go with you where ever you go.
I met three classmates in a jungle,
But none of them asked me, "How are you?"
How I am is not the matter.
It is what I am going to be, transforming into.
China says that Indian Ocean is not India's ocean,
But same thing does not apply to South China Sea.
Though politics are not my field,
I know that my Indian dream is not just Indian.
It can be Ethiopian or Syrian,
It can be Vietnamese or Nigerian,
As human have same flesh and blood, and
Their dreams are not written scripts in a particular language,
Nor these dreams follow the imaginary boundaries of ocean.
They don't stop when the walls of continents come in their way,
They just know to grow and fly,
To reach beyond the imagination,
To flourish, live and let live.
Dreams and reality, together make my life,