O! Where will I find these vibrant fawns
That lived in wordsworth’s poetry.
O! Where will I seek those stately dawns:
The angels, doves and whistling trees,
That sang the tunes of loneliness;
Unfazed, unsmelt of worldly mess.
In dim-lit quarters and chequered spaces,
I groped in vain for fondly places.
My search, though, never met its end-
As Humanity could never lend
A domain: Pure and soft as a child;
A region calm amongst the wild!
These God-made mute and spotless places
Are tainted dark by hideous faces.
They reek of filth and wallow in grime,
And grow their shoots as grows the time.
O! They should learn the art to live;
The art to love; The art to give.
A day-long toil in mortality
Burning our sinews and vitality.
In times of cold and seething hot-
We try to cut the Gordian knot.
Yet a dream remains somewhere:
The dream to dream in times spare!
The night and moon evoke that leisure
When all we do is lounge with pleasure.
The lull softens our aching eyes
We sleep to mete the myth of skies.
Our thoughts are raised to a distinct plane.
Untrodden soil, unfound domain.
A planet of unexplored realms.
A mystic world: The world of dreams!
And what are dreams? Heady stuff
That sits on mind and sits enough.
An egg, a larvae, or a cocoon
That bursts to life an age too soon.
A camel sitting on piles of snow.
And melodies of a crooning crow…
A sand-less desert, a rootless tree;
All funny things, with a sleep, come free.