When I see you in my dreams
you are a rowdy young man
with a puppy in his lap.

And it makes me dream of women
who could have been mother.
Men who could have been you.

Perhaps, then
I could have been born
of greater love.)

I dream of wax wings melting
and splashing onto walls and floor
as we pass by burning slopes
arguing on poetry and love.

Fifty, you whisper into my ear.
Fifty, it echoes back to you.
And we go on together for years
when it is difficult to pass a day.

Only your beard keeps on greying.
Only your eyes keep on dimming.

Samartha Vashishtha