A mute boy gathered snares, freed birds trapped
In the tyranny of his playmates youth, went
Into himself mending wings, nesting fledgling
Dreams, saw them flee with time his hamlet.
He’s still repairing wings, mending broken dreams,
An old man cobbler in a hovel, wayside inn for
Wanderers, pads the souls of restless feet, worn
Through lives that once, like him, were fame bound.
In backyard shacks of ghettos, figures couch over lamps,
Kerosene douses wicks, no talent scouts see bonfires leap,
Till experiences drench ambition, and flames subside
In eyes where a man plays music all day, searching
For metaphors in precedent, he observes nothing
New under the sun, only a honing of God’s ideas,
His birds and sky and butterflies trapped, in the
Cobwebs of a village prison, caught plagiarist.
His mother rants, how lazy; unperturbed he plots his
Path to fame, plucking up the ladder of guitar strings.
Visionaries can’t escape the bonds of vision, in a world
Too small to accommodate the vast expanse of dreams.
Intellects fallow in plains of denigration, success before
The time for recognition. Still, each day, backwater people
Pack their dreams first in the suitcase of the head
And set off in search of fame; many are stopped
At the border of his island, a man finds the sea,
Boundary of his plans, he pauses to whet convictions
In a seaside bar and ends a drunkard sailor who can’t
Fathom his indolence because he once, was fame bound.