Perchance to Dream

Copyright: Christopher C. Doyle, 1987

The sun hangs low on the western horizon as I settle back in my rocking chair. Small wisps of clouds, tinged with a melancholy yellow, flit across the purple emptiness; while the setting rays of the sun glance off a gleaming skyscraper to form a gentle halo on the landscape around it.
And with the creeping darkness, comes a mist within my mind, severing the tenuous bond that keeps me conscious of my existence. I am transported to the past, to my youth, when the fire of ambition within me was stoked by the cumbrous yoke of subjugation.
I hailed from a family of good position and enjoyed the privilege of higher education. I was betrothed to the girl I loved. But somewhere within me was that urge to fight for my motherland.
And fight I did.
What glorious dreams we had dreamt; we would be freed from vassalage, our beautiful country would recapture her lost glory. No amount of repression could still the emotions that raged in our zealous breasts. We would sing songs of love, of glory, of purity and innocence, of the meadows, the hills, the vales of our glorious land; and long for the day we would drink of the happiness that would flow through the land.
A refulgent comet streaks through the black expanse above me, leaving a luminous trail of scattered sparks. Suddenly, I am back in the present. My dreams dissolve around me and melt into the gloomy murk. I glance upwards and watch the stars twinkle, accentuating the obscureness of the void around them.
The land is the same, the air is the same; and yet, there is a perceptible difference. The beauty we dreamt of has remained a prerogative of Nature.
‘Where is the happiness we fought for?” I wonder, as I watch a frail woman drag her half starved, semi clad child through the deserted street, under the glare of the streetlights.
“What were the sacrifices for?” I ponder, and the mist creeps up again, engulfing my weary mind.
There is still a dream.
When I was young, I would gaze up at the firmament and dream of a free country, a land of unending love and joy. Now, I dream of the time when our sacrifices will realise their eventual reward. As the world sleeps, and the stars wink down on a dreaming globe, an ocean of silence engulfs the heavens and my dream unfolds, emerging from a mire of ignorance and chaos.
I see my motherland rise from the ocean of purity and beauty—newly baptised, resplendent in all her beauty and glory. The stars and the breeze echo our song of hope and love for our motherland.
My dream is the dream of all my fellow patriots: ours is an eternal dream.
I see myself now, sitting by the fire, singing with my fellow patriots. The words echo through my mind, the mist grows deeper and my eyes grow moist.
Someday, somewhere, my dream will come true. And that day will be a day of triumph for my motherland.
My thoughts are rudely interrupted by a gentle touch on my shoulder. It is mmy great granddaughter, asking me to come inside, as it is growing cold. I gather my shawl and my walking stick, and look around me, searching for my dream.
The night is fading, the stars have dimmed and a soft glow lights up the eastern horizon. Another day has begun. Another day, another rhope, another dream.