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Is it okay

To write about 

Dreamers, lovers and poets

When the world gasps for air

And pandemonium 

Is as rampant 

As the pandemic?

Does it hurt sentiments

And seem frivolous and foolhardy

To imagine 

A sunny afternoon

With a pair of arms 

To garland your weary shoulders?

To wish for

A happier end to an unhappy year?

To long to feel

That familiar itch of excitement

Of a new town, 

A new cuisine,

And a new language

That romances the tongue 

Gently, but surely,

So that the only insecurity

You have left

Is of not being able 

To sing each sentence 

Like a blackbird's song,

Like a violinist's confession,

Like a muezzin's call to prayer. 

"I cannot rest from travel".

But for now, 

I must travel within.