Rêve Lane
Rêve Lane
is where a foreign friend walked with me,
excited to see a word written in familiar tongue.
It was just a stop along the way to the sea,
but it was one step closer to the freedom we would leave.
Rêve Lane
is where Djarum Blacks burned endlessly
between the fingers of relaxed hands;
where candle light lit the night of room after room
with red wine and hashish while the music played so freely.
Rêve Lane
is where life-blood in my veins ran warm,
excited to see worlds written in unfamiliar tongue.
Nothing could have stolen our deep intrinsic joy,
but—you remember—it was just a stop along the way.
Rêve Lane
is where mountains fell beneath our feet
and flowers blossomed around our heads;
where rivers were ridden with readiness of heart
to wild jungles we traversed on foot and elephant back.
Rêve Lane
is where a foreign friend walked with me
while the life-blood in our veins ran so very warm;
and though it was merely a stop along the way,
nothing could have ever stolen our deep intrinsic joy.
Rêve Lane
is where motorcycles were ridden
higher than lakes to sacred temples;
where we rode them in the dead of night all alone
down wet alleyways and drifted them until police came.
Rêve Lane
is where I learned how to be myself
while learning constantly how to be someone new;
where I learned how to completely forget myself
and turn my eyes, if only for one moment, to others.
Rêve Lane
is where we went surfing for Christmas
and ate platters of freshest seafood;
where we danced innocent as children with locals
in a small rundown restaurant to celebrate New Year’s.
Rêve Lane
is where I learned how to be someone
whose footprints on this earth might be cherished;
where I quickly learned how I should forget myself
so another’s light may have its proper time to shine on.
Rêve Lane
is where we sat in a darkened room
cross-legged beside a low table,
sharing momos and a watermelon hookah
while I wrote my poetry and you drew your lovely art.
Rêve Lane
is where I turned my eyes to others,
broadening my circle of sympathy;
where I could unabashedly be who I am,
and by the love of friendship learn how to become someone.
Rêve Lane
is where we jumped aboard unpaid trains
to someplace southward we knew not where;
where we crafted art and music and poetry
and saw the world’s marvels while never spilling the spoon’s oil.
Rêve Lane
is where we smoked Djarum Blacks
with flowers blossoming around our heads
while sitting cross-legged, higher than those temples
where we created art.
Rêve Lane
is where a friend walked with me
when we stopped along our way to the sea.
‘Böwakawa’ sings back to me nostalgically,
but—was it just a dream?