Why do I like to dream?
Of living in a tiny cottage with a huge library
In a desolate plateau on a distant mountain
Why do you dream to like?
Or be in love, with the bibliophile-
Yoga-loving, peregrinating, young since 1965
Why does he attempt to whet his magajastra?
So zealously just as did his 19th century forebear-
Cocaine injecting, ratiocinating, eschewing society
Why do they care for foibles of grey matter?
Rather than of heart, why do we mull?
Over the aesthetics of their care and the beauty of our solitude
To be able to brush aside the fly of spleen
From the face of our sense of wonder
To be dazzled by the maverick within, how did we manage?
To remain undaunted by the edifice of reality?
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