My dreams are my love balloon.
They carry me to unheard of places and
back.
Burning fire without reason for flying.
Dropping sand bags of memories,
so I can fly higher,
away.
This baby, she accomponies me.
Constant companion of my belly.
Fourteen years after Georgia
she'll still be asking me,
"Is this it?
Is this the Snow in Bangladesh?"
She'll move to go and find out and I will say:
"No,
stay in our love balloon sweetie.
Don't search for things I dreamed of.
You are not me."
She is my daughter.
I must protect her.
But I know,
she and I and our love balloon,
cannot fly forever.
Adding your comment: