Alone on this windy day

between pain and prayers,

held between oasis and mirage

the boat sways.

Seeking a landing space

beyond the space of poetry. .

It's the season of mangoes

outside the window,

not yet ripe,

the raw smell haunts.

Dreams within dreams 

I have lived in them long.

Between them passed the years ,

pointing always to a goal.

Were it not for what existed

all along the way, despite the lure,

something like the scent of the unripe mango,

I would have lost the way.

Sad, that life does not move like poetry

a ticketless travel on unspecified roads

to embark any day, and to disembark with no regret.