If only somewhere,
in some quiet corner of the world,
dreams were laid out for sale—
like delicate silks in a moonlit bazaar,
softly shimmering, waiting to be chosen—
how gladly would I go.
I would trade in the dreams
that echo with sorrow’s voice,
those tired, tear-worn reveries
that flicker in the dark corners of my sleep.
I'd give them all away—
just to bring home dreams dipped in gold,
dreams woven in laughter,
dreams that carry the fragrance of spring.
From that fair of dreams,
I would gather the wonders of childhood—
dreams of chasing butterflies under blue skies,
dreams that smelled of rain on sun-warmed soil,
dreams of paper boats and puddles,
of stars you could catch in your tiny hands.
And I would seek dreams of youth—
wild and reckless,
dreams that danced in midnight winds,
dreams that knew no boundaries,
dreams bold enough to leap
across time and consequence.
I would find dreams hued in colors
no grief could fade—
dreams painted in sunrise-orange,
river-blue, meadow-green,
dreams that bloomed like fields
left untamed and singing in the wind.
I would bring home dreams
of light—
small lamps glowing in forgotten alleys,
tiny flames that whisper,
“You are not lost.”
Dreams that could fill
the empty halls of the soul
with quiet music,
dreams that hang like lanterns
in the corridors of longing.
With arms full of such dreams,
I would return—
and breathe them into my life,
like scent into a waiting garden,
like color into a weary sky.
They would rise within me
like morning—
soft, slow, but certain—
and my life would gleam
not with grandeur,
but with quiet joy.
Oh, if only dreams were sold somewhere—
just once,
just once let me stumble upon such a fair—
I would come home
not with gold,
not with jewels,
but with dreams…
Yes, I would come home
carrying dreams
meant for these tired eyes.
I would cradle them gently—
those dreams of joy
meant to replace
the ones that ache.
If only—
if only dreams were sold.
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