Strolling through a concrete jungle
Of no particular latitude or longitude
Kicking empty cans that should have
Been recycled a long time ago
I guess, it was inevitable ---
Falling into somebody’s worn out
Sandbox, I came across several
Rusted out buckets.
These buckets were filled with dreams.
Left behind in legerity to escape
A decline of suburban rote living ---
Why do we leave our dreams behind?
Is it because we are afraid?
Afraid of dying?
Wary of being unshut?
I see it all the time,
People not really in love
Nestling down to the very life
They fled from - only now
Their buckets are made of plastic
Filled with empty dreams
Or ineffectual prayers!
The Author teaches English in DPS STS School, Dhaka.