On reaching the last page
of my dream journal,
I feel as if my dreams
are going to end.
I dreamt just to
write them in my journal.
In the pages  I cut
their  wings and implanted
costly ones, with bright colours.
I was always deaf
before the cry of my pity fly,
my dreams.
Always they cried, loud,
for their colourless wings.
For the sake of making them marvellous,
in public,
with the pleasure of being a ruler,
in private,
I would ask them to fly
to the peaks I point, and they did.
Now, on reaching its last page
I realize, my friend,
this journal is nothing but a garbage pit
with a heap of decayed colourless wings.
This last page has become unbearable
with its rising foul smell.