If the dreams I’m having

are not mine,

who is dreaming mine?

If I miss the train tomorrow

will someone else arrive

at the destination in my stead?

Only delinquent memory

confuses and conflates

names of writers and of their

times and cities;

Was there ever a Buenos Aires,

a Lisbon,

a Bologna,

without a Borges,

a Pessoa,

an Eco?

If there were any such cities

perhaps the writers too

were never there;

perhaps they dreamt their dreams

in other locales

under pseudonyms

to disguise the fact that

others had dreamt their dreams

for them,

adopted their names

their appearance and mannerisms;

Trains are always like this,

full of such people arriving

at destinations that

had waited in vain,

for me.

Sent from Yahoo Mail on Android

4 thoughts on “Destinations

  1. Madhumathy

    While personal destinations are missed out at times destinations remain static welcoming all and sundry and therein lies the complexity of life and its journey. The poem crisply states this enigmatic truth.


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