Sitting in a cold room,
With cold people who are desperately craving for more enlightenment,
I lightly shiver in my thick knitted socks and sweater
Staring at the board,
I see puzzling alphabets stuck to it,
It is all blurry at this point
Explicating Dereck Walcott's "A Far Cry from Africa",
Questions moves back and forth the room,
They pass through my head,
"What do you see in this poem?"
But all I can see is a figure of my father,
I begin to lose all touch with space and time,
My body present,
My head somewhere else
I dream of utopia,
Where the air is far from musty,
Where all sounds are sung in heavenly melody,
Where everyone is in consonance,
Where the sun gently dances on your skin like a second grade ballet,
Where a father's cloudless love washes over the sins of an English rose,
The voiceless self cries out for a father's touch
In utopia,
I see myself wrapped in blankets of fondness,
Just craving for more warmth,
And security,
To be in one elevated understanding,
To sink in one melody of reformation,
To dream of a day dusted in perfection,
To witness my gracious transformation
On some days,
On Sundays,
To drive home to the springtime of life,
To have absolute agreement in comical conversations
To receive millions and millions of kisses and not get tired of them,
To drown in a hug so tight,
A father and daughter slowly merge into one soul,
I smile as I reminisce
In a state of fragility,
I'm pulled back into reality,
Through the window I see a rose growing towards the sun,
A five year old running into her car,
Just ready,
Excitedly ready to be taken anywhere her father takes her,
An ice cream shop,
A bookstore,
The play ground,
Home,
It does not matter,
A trust so deeply rooted in American soil takes her away,
To utopia
I dream of more Sundays with you, Dad.
