Mending a Dream Holding a dream in my hands I’m running Running on I've stumbled at times. In the midst of fog of pain And smoke of fire Sometimes the dream slips down from my hands. Picking up the dream I’ve resumed my journey Yet I haven't become tired. I’ve been one with the dream. Dream has no size, no mass, no weight Has no shape. Nevertheless, wafts and floats in the heaven of bliss Sinks in the sea of sadness. Dream can change the colour of man's life. My old dream is getting tattered in places I’m trying to stitch it At times mending holes Like my great grandpa's old rickety shirt. I’m mending a dream that touches my life. Sometimes in Seclusion Sometimes in seclusion I open up the door to my heart and see If there is a patch of light in some nook or cranny. I open the window. Groping in the alien room Even the draft of wind loses grip. In the pitch black darkness I search here and there If in the midst of the very darkness I shall find my lost dream, The lost past filled with sadness Of my unfulfilled hope, of withering petals. Its darkness, sheer darkness. Its there that walks a mysterious shadow. My golden childhood shivers. The mound built with potfulls of soil and sand Gets dismantled strewn all over, The dining and sleeping room stained with soil and sand. The draft of wind goes away whispering in my ears Germinating sprout grows into bud The tender leaves turn yellow from green one day. The connection with roots comes to end The strong yearning to remain holding hand in hand Comes to an end. Even the fallen leaves have An unwritten history.
Translated by Uttam Duorah
Hemaprova Moran is an Assamese poet and writer based in Kakopathar, Tinsukia.
Uttam Duorah, the translator, retired as the HoD, English, Women’s College, Tinsukia and is based in Tinsukia, Assam.