By Kimaya Bhuta
after zeina hashem beck’s “with prayer”
the doves flew in the dark starry night. they flew with dreams,
yours and mine. freud wrote a whole book — do they exist, dreams?
the little girl, she sang to the screaming sky, hardly through the rubble,
stars made of bombs, sparklers of salvo, her memory made of dreams.
i walk through the memorial, searching for my grandfather,
brazen, brave, he left a bequeath. rich kid’s dreams.
send me a love letter, tweet it, resend it. that’s all i care about,
some legendary love story, orpheus and eurydice, foolish dreams.
my father speaks of practicality, of reason, without a shadow
of a doubt, he tells me – what good a plan without any dreams?
i introspect, i give myself the milk and honey, the sweet poison of
poetry, but i forget, sorrow and joy exist together. so do nightmares and dreams.
fate says, it might take a year, it might take a day, but it’ll always find its way
anyway, and then my tired body screams, i’m done, i’m done, i’m done with dreams!
Kimaya Bhuta is currently a Literary Arts student at School of the Arts, Singapore. Her natural habitat is a room full of dimly lit candles in which she likes to write poetry and also Kinokuniya where she likes to dabble in reading different genres. In her free time, she likes to play chess, scroll through reddit for hours on end and fall into philosophy rabbit holes.
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