To you, in sleep

suddenly there was a race
not between time and its memory
but between a heart and its pace
of a canceled ticket to the ghost-town
of mind and reminiscence
then i read a decorated tale of agony
where reflections were vivid.

it was a morning, still i read it like a night
like a new born child's tongue
of his disorganized links and stories
of the precious sound the creature made
yet no one understood the words he say
the ignited world, who compliments often,
is fake or am i simply jealous.
my threads were weak, so can i befriend you
again and again, o heart in siege?

these words resonated from a cave
a cave near the river of a name
a name which is like the river - silent!
with a bond less melancholic
i rowed the boat while you sang a song
this voice is stale like your jewelery box
"tell me, how do you like it?"
of smile which remained my reply.
else i sung along the river, the moonlight
or becoming of a metaphoric rower.

in that room of strangeness
like a shy bride, i entered to eat cheese
in that room of familiarity
where things were in order or invisible
i entered again, now like a tigress
but life remained questionable of
my absence, your presence
records of cigarette leaving the ash
on a soul, invisible, inside your room
that soul was a sole witness
of our words, smiles, heartbeats
i wish i could wear the color
of your smile; i wanted a horse in
that shady lane, beside those animating vendors
who knew nothing of our brave tales, emotions
and i wanted an old man too, mediating
who would from a distance smile at
my hand in yours, my footstep behind yours
who would say in his absentmindedness
that we are made in heaven
but this is not a love story... or is it?
blame to my unrequited heart or head
or is it the unrequited poetry...
maybe ours is a story of life, a pristine one
a little subtle and more comical
of simple people in dissonant juxtaposed narration
of a bond which now stands beyond words
or too simple to be named, understood or refrain.
but i now i predict a futurity, a sure tense
and of a future where i shall
pray for a safe world there
near that cave, near that river.
and god who knows one language
of all poetry but no fabrication.
of prayer as silent as my past
to keep you safe and protect the truth
and the present tense, where i hold a book
of Fanon who will teach me about
a dark night and a black struggle but
i insist on carrying your words, your poems
of alfaaz, of blunt innocence, of my pause
and their sellers, of harkening and
of snow flakes, of first love and Neruda.
of my senselessness and of your sweetness
of this day and many like this
god bless the soul i meet often in dreams.