The Dream Should Have Died

The dream should have died in Russel street
Or perhaps in London’s Moscow road;
We should have buried it in Basdeopur,
Under a shredded tobacco shroud;
But when you called across continents
from the island of my childhood,
I came with lightness in my heart,
to traipse down sulphurous escarpment
with your reflections in your arms
and mine in tow.
When you took us for Italian pizza
and mugs of Anker beer,
Guitars, and Javan boys in white
I went with joy in my heart;
But when I tried to dream again,
you quietly broke an ageing heart
That can’t forget
A dream which should have died