Although I Stare At No Man’s Land
Although I stare at no man’s land, with the detritus of long wars stretched to the horizon, and the aroma of death upon the air, and the gold moon glowering in derision, my dreams are as bright as the rainbow and effloresent as the tulips that decorate the shores of the bosphorus.
Although I stare at no man’s land, with the dread conflict of inclement ages leaving interminable rubble, and the smoke of guns still fresh on the wind, I declare that my dreams are as resplendent and bold as the new birthed morning and as comely as the poet’s musing, devised in fresh hope and impressions of the earth’s replenishing beauty, gifting soft colours and cool shade.
Although I stare at no man’s land, with the violence of rebellion flaring like a wildfire and the smell of putrefaction on the breeze, and the death toll too heavy to contemplate, I keep inside my imperturbable dreams, my indomitable dreams, which glimmer like a pirate’s treasure and sparkle with the infinite aspirations of a lover or religious zealot.
Although I stare at no man’s land, a picture of unquenchable destruction and the ruthlessness of men, with the buildings tattered and the ground mucky and putrescent, and the vast silence like an act of mockery, my dreams live in perfect continuity, unfolding like a golden road to fabulous Oz, where the various characters of myth and make believe appear in bright cordiality and with flattering words, as the fantastic horizon glows with fluorescent clouds and pure weather.
Although I stare at no man’s land, with the starkness of human cruelty staring me down, and the pang of loss smarting in my chest, my dreams are a haven of love, where only good cheer and tenderness may find a lease, and where friendship and camaraderie are vouchsafed to the innocent and guilty alike, and where the songs that herald new kingdoms play sweetly in the air, and where the shadows of yesteryear are transformed into kindling for our celebration.
Although I stare at no man’s land, with the stars above betraying their deep despondency, and the owl on the rafter peering forlorn, and the stench of death brazen in my nostrils, my dreams sing in bliss.
