He dreams about the mountains,
With winding roads green with moss
And valleys where long grass grows;
He can see the petals on
He almost tastes the sweetness
Of apples in the orchards.
He hears the muezzin’s echoing call,
The peal of bells in the temple;
He traces the gurgling stream
Spluttering through the leaf-strewn fields;
The skies are bluer than opals.
The forests greener than emeralds,
But something still feels incomplete.
In his dream he can’t remember,
A face with those dimpled cheeks,
The wave of raven black hair
Falling on an always open book:
He tries to imagine her presence
Again by his favorite window.
But the window is empty.