Scattered, strewn, in the various corners of this desolate city
Dreams, of the down trodden, bent-neck devoid of their content and meaning
Of Which the city dwellers are unaware
I go out searching for them, day and night
To gather them, clean them up,
Rinse out their grim and grime
To burn them in the kiln of my burning heart
Thus, Their countenance would shine like those of bridegrooms on their wedding day.
Perhaps, once again these dreams would get their direction.
I venture out with my crate of dreams,
As I yell out, to the people, "Dreams for sale! Dreams for sale!"
They yell back, " Are they for real? Or are they illusory,"
They gawk at my wares, as though
Only they are the connoisseurs of fables and tales.
They look, but do not touch.
Thinking, perhaps these dreams are sublime, like mist fleeting as the sun warms the early morning.
They pay no heed to my wares, all the while skirting away.
Day turns to dusk.
I yell out again,
"Take them for free, just take them off my hands"
They get even more scared and skittish of the prospects of free dreams.
"What sorcery is this?
What vagabondary?
Beware, he says they are free, but what delusions these dreams may wrought?"
The night falls,
I return, with my dreams unsold and broken back to my slumber.
As I lay my head down to sleep,
I mumble in my dreams,
"Dreams for sale, dreams, zzzz"
