I dreamt, but when I woke up, I grieved: A poem 

I dreamt that I could turn the river’s flow 

into every pore of my basalt soul 

I woke up to realise that this floor 

can’t be swept clean right to the door 

The horsemen in the battle only have evil  

in their bows, and they trade blows that they will 

I rub a lamp to see if wishes come true 

The genie, himself, can’t help feeling blue 

Is the manifestation of God a vacant room? 

Then all the prayers can’t avert impending doom 

The carpenter seems to have lost all his tools 

And there are fools teaching in the schools 

I feel vision is beset by cataract. The dream becomes black 

when you awake and take stock of what you lack