A Fair of Dreams — If Only Dreams Were Sold (1)

If only—

in some forgotten town beyond the noise,

where time walks softly and winds remember,

there stood a quiet fair

where dreams were sold…

I would wander there barefoot,

carrying the weariness of years in my palms,

searching not for gold or glory,

but for dreams

that knew how to sing.

I’d trade the ones I’ve carried too long—

the ones bruised by loss,

frayed by waiting,

hollowed by nights that forgot to end.

I’d give them away,

like old letters folded with pain,

to gather in return

a bouquet of soft, golden dreams—

the kind that whisper warmth

into cold corners of the heart.

From that fair of dreams,

I would gather those of childhood—

dreams that smell of earth after rain,

of stolen mangoes and sky-drawn kites,

of secret forts made of bedsheets and belief,

where nothing was broken

and everything could fly.

And dreams of youth—

wild, untamed, reckless with wonder,

the ones that dare the sun to fall,

the ones that write poems

on the bare skin of twilight,

then burn them

just to watch the smoke dance.

I’d gather dreams painted in deep, impossible hues—

the blue of oceans never crossed,

the crimson of unsaid love,

the silver of a wish made on a falling star,

and the soft green of forgiveness

growing slowly over old wounds.

I'd search for dreams of light—

not blinding,

but gentle and steadfast,

the kind that flicker in silence

yet never go out,

even when the world forgets to look.

I’d hold out my hands for dreams

like small, unspoken prayers—

dreams that mend,

that remind,

that plant a quiet radiance in the dark.

And when I return

from that imagined marketplace,

my arms full of dreams not yet broken,

my eyes rinsed in colors not yet named—

I would place them tenderly

inside the hollow spaces of my days.

Let them rise in me

like slow dawn over a tired landscape,

like spring returning

to trees that had given up hope.

Yes—

I would line my life with them,

these soft-burning dreams,

and finally, perhaps,

begin to live.

If only,

somewhere,

a dream could be bought—

not with coin,

but with longing pure enough

to be believed.

If only—

if only dreams were sold.