A lottery would be
A little scratch pad that rustles something inside
And that old man with the ticket
Was like a school yard kid on a piece of turf
Playing cricket. And that kid too had a lottery
In his palm. A little bat that would unlock a little treasure
On a bare patch in the middle of a green meadow.
And the little boy scratched thousands
Of lotteries yet no one
Told him that a million young
Boys were holding the same lottery
In hand, scratching away
Their passion on a patch of clay.
And one day the young man would realize
The odds of making it big was as remote
As winning a lottery. And then only will
He know, dreams come
With a price tag – too expensive
To hold aloft with both of his hands.
A dream is a little wishbone
That you hang-on to as long as you can.
And no one tells you that the cricket pitch
Is only a graveyard of dreams
Turning boys to grumpy cynical men.
Cynicism is the inverse of a dream
A dream that capsized on waters of a harrowing reality
When a castaway on an island
Searches for a little upliftment
From a beach where a million sand crystals lie
As normal as silica can ever be.
And the glitter of cricket
Was only wishful thinking, the pipe-dream
That never could bludgeon fate
Over the rope, to the warm cheers
Of 22 million.
And a dream will always be a lottery, everyone holds
But few ever cash in. And there are more gravestones
On a cricketing pitch than luminaries
Of glory, as odds become casualties
In search of the impossible.
And the impossible, to the glitter-painted eye,
Is the alchemy of a dream.