Dreams

What dreams did come then,

when I was young, nights ago,

years ago.

I was my hero, for I fought many,

when they came and shot in cinema hall,

and I flung from rail to rail,

and kicked their faces, and butts.

In blue, I saw my signature,

beneath the black and red cover,

In black shone my name,

and my sister smiled at me.

I went to her place, for a coffee,

the wall was white, I saw that,

She sat on the chair, behind the curtain,

and her mother offered the smile, too.

I haven’t fought any gunman.

I haven’t written any book.

I haven’t been to her place.

Dreams, they come so smoothly,

and meaninglessly, too, perhaps, but

half a times, I look for the proof of the bed,

other times, fingers cross, almost hugging.

Rootage

One day, I was born.

Amidst blood and masks, and breaths,

mine initiated, after the pat.

She took me, he took me,

and chewed on my sweetness.

Cotton embraced me, from below, left and right,

for the faces were left for above.

In the white hung, a clap may be,

beside was a flower may be,

there were some sweets may be,

there were giggles and laughs, for sure.

Sometimes later, he was born,

amidst the blood and masks, and breaths too,

the pat came, but not the breaths later,

he hung in air, for too long.

No clap, for sure.

No flower, for sure.

No sweets, for sure.

But he was my brother, or may be!