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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
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