Those Dreams in My Dupatta.

On the silken edge,
a very tight knot,
holds my dreams,
or at least it tries.
Intricate stitches,
like the lines on my hands,
stand guard to them,
before they betray me,
sneak out of the knot,
while I sleep in my cot.
Firmly gripping the fabric,
in a tightly clenched fist,
I try to calm myself,
at least my dreams still exist.
Safe from the lashes,
from the whips, from the stones,
within the tight knot of my dupatta,
they have safely grown..
The wildest of winds,
the torrential monsoons,
the sun's blazing rays,
not even the fiery moons,
could waver my dreams away,
in spite of the undulating cloth,
even after eons,
when I pass on my dupatta,
half eaten and teethered,
by time and by moths,
the delicate shoulders,
that would now bear the weight,
of my dreams, so forlorn,
so loyally tied within the knot,
even today, as tiny hands tug,
pulling it, yanking it,
off my shoulders onto my feet,
those tiny shards of hope,
don't let me embrace defeat.
Like a burning scar on my skin,
it reminds me of my sins.
My mistakes, my errors,
my fears and my terrors,
surprisingly this brings calm,
a quiet front after a storm..
I slap it back over my shoulder,
the knot, I know is still there,
as it slaps against my thigh,
from within me comes a sigh,
for my dreams assure me,
that'll never betray me,
never will they die.