In the Mirage of an Insomniac Dream

In the endless spiral stairway of echoes
my poem is the air that sculpts itself and dissolves.

Wanting to name it in ancient skies,
to follow the roads it travels,
wanting to restore life in crushed names,
to reinstate their honor.

I built a mansion of words in the city of reflections;
it was a sleepwalking tower
always waiting for the wind.

There are times when words drink,
there are times when pages breathe,
there are times when the poem plays sonata,
yet it guards my castle of memoir
in which it is the sole prisoner.

It is eclipsed in charities;
it appears in every form of vanishing,
in the mirage of an insomniac dream,
in the abandoned gardens of memory--
where it searches for its form,
and gathers its bones to make a structure.

In the endless spiral stairway of echoes
my poem is the air that sculpts its form.

Copyright ? 2005, Debashish Haar