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.