By Rajnish Mishra

My father is a dreamer, has always been. Only now

his dreams have enlarged spheres. Even then,


back then, he dreamed a lot and talked of his dreams,

of a suave move, a shrewd plan, a sure guide, ‘for dummies’


to the treasure at the end of the rainbow. Times changed, he too,

and in came his new dreams on large HD screen.


It’s in human nature probably, to dream and expand

the sphere of dreams with age, with time.


They say I look like him – just like him.

I have never seen us together in the mirror back in time,


or in a photograph: both of the same age.

His old acquaintances, friends, relatives, neighbors


confirm, whenever we meet for the first time

by their words and look of confirmed,


tallied recognition, telling me that I look just like him,

and then, there are those regulars who regularly tell me:


I act, react and speak like him. To them, I don’t

just remind them of him, I even feel like he does.


They don’t like him so me, or him and me,

or what’s in me like him. I’m not sure.


I can’t say they are right. I can’t say they are wrong.

It’s uncertain at best. There’s one thing I am sure of.


There’s one thing I know. I know that I’m a dreamer,

I know and watch my dreams expand their sphere.


They turn to airy from earthy of my youth, made of the stuff

dreams are made of. Enough! No more shall we dwell on my dreams


it’s not they now, some other time Dr. Freud. They are not

the theme of this poem.

His poem?

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