With nostalgia in my heart
and longing in my eyes,
I dream of my city.
I cross the river of my innocence
and take the road to my childhood;
I stop at the crossroads of growing up
and make my way
to the city of my happy memories.

Addresses written in familiar hands
show me the way;
fragments of memories
lead me on.
And, there, suddenly before me,
Is the city of my dreams.

But everything seems strange
in this city I knew so well.
Everything is in ruins:
the roads deserted,
the houses desolate and forlorn.
There is no warmth
in the jostling posters;
no invitation in the peeling walls.
I come face to face
with the harsh ironies
lying in wait for me.

Unwanted sights crowd me:
friendly knocks rebuffed
on the neighbour's door;
thirst returning from the dry tap;
childhood crying on its way
to an orphaned future;
modesty hiding her tears in shame;
innocence caught
between flying bullets;
amity falling into pieces
from broken domes.

The day retreats in disgrace,
night comes weeping
in the completeness of its shame.
Bewildered, I look at faith
Stuck on the knife's edge,
dharma blasted in explosions,
conscience drowned in blood,
and justice consumed by arson.
I have a dream before my eyes;
there is a city in my dreams,
and there is
a curfew in the city.