by Debangana Mishra
Dead dreams come to life again
To reawaken the Nomad’s desire
For Home like the discovery of
Crumpled but cheerfully coloured wrappers of sweet treats
in the darkest corners of unused cabinets.
Locked forever between the
Familiar lanes of the past and the unknown roads of the future,
The present remains swinging like a tireless pendulum
Suspended over the mind.
Years spent following the Chief through
His stubborn and selfish orders,
His cruelty and insecurity,
His hollow ideals and hypocrisy,
Have seen all the seasons of
Childhood already depart.
Now youth threatens an early departure too.
Years spent waiting, waiting and
Waiting more for the Chief to
Lead us home.
Alas! There must be no
Waiting period as ill-begotten as ours.
Because our wait never ends.
Our chief has ensured this.
Are you having fun at our expense chief?
I have stood watching as
Clouds filled with rain
Leave without a drop,
Slouching away elsewhere
To someone else. Wistfully
I have watched the skies come to a
It took me a while to realize,
My dream may not be mine alone. I know of
Others like me. But the burden of dreaming of
Is mine alone. Others no longer dream. They warn me
Of reality, of illusions, of false hopes, of
The Impossible. They say:
We are to continue on this nomadic path.
Still, I dream of Home. And why not? I now know
I must find my own way