Thursday, May 03, 2007

The Bookstore at The Street's End

There is a bookstore at the street's end
that sells the dreams we once dreamed.
I didn't know of it till I walked into it;
and the balding salesman eager, flashed his

wisdom-stained teeth, "Sir! I know
what you want!" His eyes yellow
(No, he wasn't jaundiced, or crackbrained)
acquiring a musty glow, unfeigned

that comes from a lifetime of browsing
through reams of unsought pages. "Nothing!
I'm just curious but what'd you think I want?"
"A book of dreams; dreams that yet taunt

your growing wrinkles, grey hair," he shrugged.
"Really!" I looked askance. Stretching six-feet across
the display gallery, he picked, "Your Dreams - Rich or Macabre."
But astonishingly, the words bedimmed, and in my hands

bore another's name, another claim.
I peered hard, 'Who is the poet? Oh! It is but me!'
"Hey! What may I pay to buy this book?" I asked.
"Nothing! Write and gift us this very book!" said he.

(c) Dan Husain
May 02, 2007


shikha said... too standing in line for THE gift...Mera number kab aayega???

Blue Athena said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Sahar said...

adaab, bhaai.

hope you like mine too.

Roger Stevens said...

Nice poem. Not sure about the last line though.

Enjoyed it.