A Beggar’s Dream I broke myself over a beggar’s dream; On ragged clothes and imperfect eyes; Indifferent to the world, to me and I And when I found out every single way To make every single wrong decision I could have made, I shamelessly felt ashamed to bring myself Down to the ground where I can look at that beggar and his imperfect eyes; Wearing ragged clothes; indifferent to the world and I; And I broke myself over his dream.
If there was a story about him, I swear I could have seen it written over his body. He kept on scratching his ring finger as if He is missing a part of his soul, maybe he was. Maybe I was the only one who saw it I am at his level now, am I not? Only hugs he receives now is from his own self During those winter nights when he has to crawl And become almost meaningless, like a stone.
People keep on staring at me no…us, for being at that level I feel like screaming at them –“Your eyes are as imperfect as mine. Perfectly imperfect as mine. You break yourself onto some dreams too. Yours or somebody else’s. And what difference is their between us? You have an iron leaving Its scent on your clothes this morning, he tasted iron this morning That was in that policeman’s hands. “
We sat and spoke then, after being equally bruised – He spoke with much wisdom and an empty stomach. I took him to a tea shop – the shopkeeper did not allow him in So we took a couple of chairs outside. I saw him lean On the chair – like a man he once was, or maybe still is. I thought the sugar was less in the tea. He closed his eyes After the first sip – I think he discovered his entire life there, again.
I could see his story – a photograph Hidden clumsily between his half torn shirt And his chest. I could imagine that photograph Clutched in his hands as the only bond That he had left with himself. For a moment only though I understood how your entire world can exist inside A crumpled piece of paper showing a Blue eyed girl in a yellow skirt hugging her favorite teddy bear.
I saw a dream then, in his eyes. Imperfect as the world and I. A dream I need not put in words; Only a fool would not know it in world. You heard it when the old men spoke, Or you whispered it as an evening joke. That dream you find in the beggars sleep Or in your eyes when strangers weep.
Bend and gather the lose and the last Of my belongings, as they shall, Pass amid those rising masts Those drift them afar and swell, By the broken wind and word, That stood gaping against the shore, Treading upon the sands no more.
While my belongings break their customs, And rise high and low, like dancing sails. For once in their raising, lay unaccustomed By their meandering and manners pale. Pearls and pearls -measured in stooks. Why their say be a languished truth? Like bartered conceptions of the youth.
In the gathering the lost is lost, Founding only in the memory, remains. Yet I seem to carry the cost Of the losing and it’s following claims. They be set for a journey now. The journey of mine, broken, ceased, Bend to gather – belongings or peace?
I have left a thought wandering, In placid silence and reflections. While the dust lays, timidly, gathering, I seek pleasure among other creations, That float and stir the peace within And mellow with those falling debts. Have they been those sights unseen? Ah! The conspiring soul of mine! It lets Them inside that tranquil place. Unknown to all, where the ripples they, Move farther and farther to embrace A thought left wandering at the bay.
To see more than the depth of the day, Its extended hand over the longings So profound, yet they voice-timid and small But brave enough to gather the length of The morn, the noon, the even...while all May succumb to the lost light; the brighter one; To the light found, only enough to draw Lines around the solid self’s, of mine and The one's I have left long behind.
What it becomes to wear a reason For a question untamed? What it Becomes of reason that cannot Conceive an answer.
Trace to me the losing words Grasp them with a hint of pain. Never together...never the same. The falling be so cruel yet kind It offers a lesson in nothingness, so What is it to you that binds Over the courteous fragments-low Hung over the even sky And the curtained mist and aimless rain. Benevolence be so graced so rhymed To sooth away the will of pain. But has the dusk ever chased Anything else but the dying sun Or the dawn have been in play For a chance to man to be the one.