The Market of Dreams - If Only Dreams Were Sold Somewhere

If only—

somewhere beneath the hush of stars,

there stood a quiet stall of dreams,

hung with shimmering threads of longing,

and price-tagged hopes in silken beams.

I would walk barefoot through that fair,

past echoes of lullabies still lingering in the dust,

and gather dreams—

not for fortune, nor for fame,

but for my tired eyes,

for the ache behind each blink.

I would trade the dreams

that echo with old sorrow,

those gray, rain-streaked fragments

I never meant to keep—

for dreams of laughter wrapped in morning light,

for joy with petals soft and deep.

I would seek the dreams of childhood,

forgotten in attic corners,

sticky with memories of mango trees

and barefoot summers.

I’d bring back dreams of youth—

wild with colors yet unnamed,

with questions flung like stars

across a sky still unashamed.

I would find the dreams

painted in hues of twilight,

the ones that burn like candles

on the edge of night—

dreams that flicker when the world grows cold,

yet never die, nor fold.

And dreams of flame—

to light the corners of despair,

to pour brightness into days

too weary to care.

Dreams that bloom

like marigolds in forgotten soil,

bright and brave and unconcerned with toil.

I would carry them home

in trembling hands,

press them gently to my chest,

and feel the hush return—

a slow softening

of all that’s burned.

Ah, if only dreams could be bought…

if only dreams hung from shelves

like ripe fruit waiting to be chosen—

then I would fill my arms,

my heart,

my soul—

and finally be whole.

If only—

just once—

a dream could be bought.

Then I would bring

not someone else's,

but mine—

reborn, unforgotten.