In those young days when I used to
Love blossoms, and wished to fly around them
Like a butterfly, the colour of my dreams was ‘green’.
When I coveted to touch the snow clad
Mountains that loomed over the boundless
Horizon spreading before me, the colour
Of those dreams were ‘ blue’, as the hyacinths.
The age when I desired for the dawn of
A new political system without corruption,
And the blood was bubbling with revolutionary
Ideologies, the dreams hovered around me
Looked forward for such a dawn, its colour
Was a crimson ’ red’, of the proletariat.
When I see the dry leaves of a tree
Scorched in the intolerable heat of the sun,
My excitement freeze and the dreams
Assumed the hue of ‘ash’, in despair.
In this advanced stage of life, I am unable to see
Anymore vivid dreams, I used to have.
Now my palette have the colours, got mixed
Together, and formed a blackish tint.
No more resplendent dreams in the life now!
And who knows, what its colour could be
In the eerie silence of my tomb….
No comments:
Post a Comment