The doctor had spoken. Aman’s aspirations were shattered.
He picked up a book.
“Dream“, he read out loud, “dreams turn into thoughts.”
He picked up a pen.
RIP Abdul Kalam sir. Your inspiration is immortal.
Your face gleaming in the first rays of the sun
bronze, yellow, tinged with colours
watching waves run to us, oblivious to hours
We scout our beach for shells
that would remind us of that one day
where sands of time and tides of joy
were ours to breathe in-
Breathe in solitude
of each other’s presence..
I’m going to write some verse
On who and what I am
And oh the very thought
Makes me want to jig and jam
Will I write of the time
when the starfish came to visit
or when I taught the birds to pray
and the frogs to go ribbit?
I think I’d rather tell you
of the mountain tops I climbed-
the flying fish that sang for me
the passing clouds that sighed-
When I danced on the moon and
the flowers bloomed and beamed
and the woodpecker took a bow
and the earthworms all cheered.
For will you not prefer the me
who lives in dreams of magic showers-
than the one with eyes open
in the singeing burn of hours?