Blind Scrap-Dealer

Armghan Ahmad

In the corners of the city are 
Scattered, broken, aimless dreams
Of which the city-dwellers are unaware.
I wander the corners of the city, morning and night,
So that I might compile them,
Reignite them in the forge of my heart, 
Clear off old, accumulated dirt,
So that their hands and feet may emerge again,
Their lips and cheeks and necks arise with a sparkle,
Like the unfulfilled desires in the heart of a newly adorned groom 
That these dreams may again find direction.

“Dreams, get your dreams—,”
As morning comes, I go to the square and give my call. 
“Are the dreams real or counterfeit?”
They investigate as if 
There were no greater authority on dreams than them! 

A maker of dreams, I am neither
A maker of the second face, nothing more
Although, yes, the backbone of my livelihood is dreams

Evening comes,
Again, I give my call 
“Free, completely free, these dreams of gold”
Upon hearing “free,” people become even more fearful
And wordlessly move away
“Watch out; ‘free’ he says, 
Might it be a hoax?
A hidden trick?
That they might break upon reaching home, 
Or that these dreams might melt,
Fly away in a puff of air,
Or perform some sorcery upon us,
Oh no! What use are they?
These dreams of a mere scrap-dealer,
These dreams of a sightless scrap-dealer!”

Night falls,
With stacks of dreams resting upon my head,
I return with a dejected expression,
All night I again murmur,
“Take these dreams…
Take more…and take from me their cost as well…
Dreams, take these dreams…
My dreams…
Dreams oh my dreams…
Dreams…
Even their cost”