When Dreams Lived in Dirt

We built a dream with grains and hand, Skyscrapers born of humble sand. A dome, a gate, a flowered fence, Our world was vast, our joy immense. We shaped a home with stick and leaf, Our backyard bloomed beyond belief. A cow of plastic grazed in peace, Where laughter rang and time would cease. With tiny doors and secret rooms, We danced beneath the sun’s perfumes. We cooked with dust and Maggi spice, Red oil stolen—to cook rice. We played out life with fearless glee, At five, we swore by twenty-three, We’d have our kids and build a name, But life, it doesn’t play that game. Adulthood knocked, not soft, but loud, It broke our domes, dispersed our cloud. The roads we drew with sticks and chalk Are now the ones we fear to walk. The sand house stands, though long forgot, In memory’s yard, that sacred spot. Where dreams were clay, and time was gold, And joy was something we could hold. Oh how we rode old tires for cars, And caught the moonlight in glass jars. We played with stones, not phones or screens, In worlds we built from childhood dreams. So let the wind reshape the dune, But not erase those golden Junes. For deep within our weary frame, The sand house still remains the same.