I dreamt,
and it was madness.
The dream started young,
a dream so beautiful,
full of literature and poetry,
of Thames I dreamt sitting by Wang chhu,
I couldn't share the dream,
for everyone thought it was madness,
and madness it was,
and this madness drove my thoughts,
thousands of miles,
it perhaps met Shakespeare's soul there, or Elliot's,
it is still a dream,
and the madness is wearing out,
of people I have begged,
and people do sound sympathetic but its my dream,
they wouldn't care,
and never have I wanted the evil money so much,
never, never before,
nor do I crave for more,
for I know all this is for the plants I grew up with,
they talk to me,
I can feel them and it hurts to see them deplete and burn,
logs and logs burn,
and my heart burns with it,
this is madness I know,
like that 10,300 km on the road was not enough,
the fourty days in the car,
madness is wearing out,
I am growing older,
But I still do not understand the world,
am sure none do, but all pretend to,
of death I wait,
I am not even scared
and hopefully
it will be a mad death.
Amen!
