I Dream

I dream,

and all around me

sheets of paper are flying.

What will happen,

why it will happen,

how it will happen,

everyone is writing.

I wake from my sleep

and find that the earth

has travelled only a little farther

along its familiar orbit,

and the sun

has moved only a little farther

along its own path.

Sometimes I think

it would be better

if the world were made of paper.

Perhaps one day

we could simply write upon it

and change its face.

“From today...

no,

from this moment,

the world shall be like this.”

And just like that,

the world would change.

Respect is only a word,

yet somehow it feels more at home

outside the world

than within it,

more comfortable

in a black-and-white world.

Once, when sunlight was still gentle,

someone said

there was a home for it in the heart.

The merchants of the black-and-white world

never believed it.

In their eyes,

paper has become a blindfold.

The cold of the seasons

passes through their machines,

machine after machine.

Can paper flowers

ever remind them

that real flowers exist?

The question remains.

It always has.

A road wrapped in paper

may indeed reach

the window of a shop,

but it does not know the way

to the window of life.

The answer to this road

lies only in desire,

and in action.

Not in playing with

someone else's pain and suffering

in a world made of ink.

Not in filling a paper canvas

with words about the lives

we never truly see.

But in those eyes

that open after sleep,

in those eyes

that once remained closed

while the world was being written

around them.

Perhaps the real change

does not begin on paper.

Perhaps it begins

the moment those eyes open,

and for the first time,

they see the world

not as a story to be written,

but as something

that must be lived.

And perhaps

all those eyes

we thought had disappeared

inside some paper story

were never gone at all.

They were only waiting

to wake.