It's the same old dream, the dream long gone by,
Which only sleep can beam, of an age old love.
Kindling a pain deep under, a pain which has no balm.
Neither can I tell anyone, that I love her or that she was the only one.
A tinge of nostalgia pricks me whenever I think of her,
Of good times spent, under the blue sky, with the lone cloud.
Anytime I think of her, it's the glow in her eyes,
Which brightens at the very sight of me,
Making my heart beat faster as she comes near me.
She was my ray of hope in the dark pit of hatred,
For her family and ours, were separated by enmity,
The age old village misunderstanding, creating the divide.
I in my teens, would have created history,
If only I stood adamant against my elders' view,
That I break my love, promising not to see her.
I yielded to the threats, betraying the love,
For which I now dream, the age old dream.
The pain in her eyes, which told me everything,
When she looked at me for the last time,
Before she was betrothed to someone she hardly knew.
Now I am in my fifties, too old to marry,
That I saw her again, half of her old self,
Grey hair, pained eyes and deep lines in her face,
Was the only thing which showed her suffering.
The drunkard she married, died a decade ago,
Leaving her to the mercies of the village law,
That decreed, that she marry her brother in law,
Who came of age, to keep the family line alive.
My heart beat faster, at the very thought, of her marrying again,
A lad, half her age, who knew nothing of love and marriage.
Earlier I allowed myself to be drawn into the village feud,
Sacrificing my love, my youth and my age old dream.
But this time I knocked off the village headman, taking his staff,
I defiantly eyed the elders, who earlier broke my dream,
I waited for them to make the first move, of stopping me,
Then I realized that it's for me to make the first move.
It took decades for that thought to sink in,
That unless I make the first move, the world just laughs,
Waiting, watching my age old dream shatter again.
I realized that I had fell in love and I have to stand by it,
Not run away, excusing myself under some archaic law.
For it is for me to be brave and be committed to prove the point,
That I have the capacity to make my dream, my age old dream to come true,
For what's the difference between me and that young brother in law,
He gets the girl by virtue of his birth, and I just watch my dream crash.
Shaking the village head man's staff, I dared the motley crowd to stop me,
Taking hold of her hand I walked away, with none daring to stop me and my dream,
This is the story of my love, my age old dream which at last I made it come true.
Victor Jasti lives in India and is passionate about writing short stories based on the Bible and real incidents. He also writes Christian fiction and poetry. Five of his poems were published in Temporal Currents compiled by an American author, Ms. Christine Tricarico.
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