On the canvas of imagination
with the brush of hope,
and the color of gore,
The painting of my dream- the dream of us all;
With shading of an enchanting castle.
Different from my home
Sans the shackles and chains;
Where birds sing, not the laments and elegies,
But the adorable songs and lullabies.
Different from my home;
The lawns of peace- not bespattered with blood
Of nipped buds;
‘In the full sun there,
the flowers bloom.
Different from my home,
Where storms of desperation;
glean, not, the corpses, of unfulfilled dreams;
There the rivulet carry heavenly waters,
Promising todays and the tomorrows.
Different from my home
With unbroken glasses, as
bullets haven’t pierced them,
like the chests of the lads in their teens.
Different from my home
Where mother with longing
Stares not at paradoxical sunsets
But on the newly grown beard
of her son’s glossy Cheeks.
Near as faith and far as fate
The painting lived
through the ages
In that prison of paradise
Where birds dream
Of their wings-
Unfettered.
