Failed dreams sustain economies
and unlike the sea
I move about dry land.
Thursday afternoon I fell asleep
to clouds giving birth
to dragons too young to fly
in the south of a country north of another.
The sea wind was baking
mountain desires with leftover dough
wasting nothing. The lower clouds
ate the tattering baby
dragons or brushed them aside
like a marine predator,
sated and indifferent to the angst
of shortage, ignores its prey.
They’ll return when hunger returns.
I want to be that predator,
eat no more than I need
of my dreams.
—Fady Joudah (The Rumpus)