• TheInkblotJournal

Dreams of Destruction; Beauty of Reality

Updated: Jun 2, 2019

Tahreem Ruba Raza

I was living my life and it seemed more beautiful than I can explain;


I was sitting in a market, lively and boisterous

Watching the calligrapher who made me curious

I was soaking the sun and drinking the breeze

Wondering how he could mold his pen with such ease

I watched him swirl his ancient pen around

I began to dose off and block off all sound


I found myself in the hanging garden of Babylon

Everything appeared to be colored with crayon

There were kids running around playing tag

And in the center sat an old man dressed in a rag

His white beard and the smile on his face

Made it seem as if he had aged with much grace

I asked him who he was and who were the kids

He asked me to kindly sit down and so I did

"But my question lies to you o wanderer of your dreams Reach your conscience, is the world the way it seems?"

He asked me who I was and where I came from

Upon learning I was privileged he became glum

I asked him to say something and to please speak

So he said “listen very closely” but his tone was meek


“These are the children of the weeping angel

These are the children of the ringing bell

These are the children with a missing limb

These are the children with a past too grim


Her father was a soldier her mother a saint

They lived a simple life under god’s restraint

They followed all orders and said all prayers

But life always finds a way to be unfair

When the gunfire sang and the bombs began

Neither could save her from the terrors of man


Oh look, there’s another, a refugee from genocide

His mother was a widower his sister a bride

And there’s Ali, a victim of nature’s science

Imagine the nerve! His dark skins defiance

These o dreamer, are the kids I adore

These o dreamer, are the children of anarchic war


But my question lies to you o wanderer of your dreams

Reach your conscience, is the world the way it seems?

You dream of Babylon, a marvel to engineering history

When the real marvel is the human souls synergy

Why do the privileged dream of materialism?

Why have they not crossed the economic chasm?

Why do we not dream of a rich Africa?

Why do we not dream of a peaceful Syria?

Why do we not dream of a liberal Kashmir?

Why do we not dream of a life free from tears?

Why do we not dream of a free Palestine?

Why do we dream of everything of ‘mine’?


As tears welled in my eyes and the garden blurred

I woke in the market with my thoughts a little slurred

I pondered over my dream and sat for a good fifteen

Thought of the man and the gardens green

My emotions were raw, I was ready to change the world

I made a plan in my mind, my thoughts whirled

I got up to go, to change the worlds scene

But I thought just let me finish my day’s routine

I can change the world tomorrow surely there’s no hurry

But first I must do this and do that and off I scurry


Tomorrow became later

And later became never

The old man blurred, the children forgotten

The dream was surely just my routines distraction

I forgot the children, I forgot their pain

I forgot the tears after all I had nothing to gain

The privilege we were granted was enough

What did it matter to me if someone else had it rough?


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THE INKBLOT JOURNAL

Published by the AUS Writing Center