There was a quiet, narrow street, lit with golden lights, where the rain gently fell.
There was a little pool speckled with the diamond stars it mirrored.
There was a pure, white sliver of moon, hooked like a brooch in the navy sky.
There was a flock of rosy birds, nestled in the trees like plump peaches.
There was a humming gust that plucked blossoms from the trees like a child selecting flowers from a field.
There was a crystal river, skating through the night, ending nowhere.
There were two iron gates, thrown open, and I passed through.
There were cakes of every color, drinks in slender flutes, a plethora of platters and plates.
There were dazzling, silver streamers and strings of sparkling lights.
There were friends, whose grins were rising like the evening moon.
There was family, with tears streaming and breaths shaking like the delicate rain.
And I run to them.

There is a thin, stone cell, where water drips somewhere in the dark.
There is a lone window, a hole in the gray walls, crossed with thick, rusting bars.
There is the night, void of twinkling firmaments, creeping through the window.
There is a tree just beyond the window, dotted with oily crows.
There is a wind, crying and wailing, winding through the cracks of the icy cell walls.
There is a battered, thin cot that I sit upon in my old, torn uniform.
There are the looming skeletons of the prison doors all around.
There are guards that lurk in the evening, ready to hurt and scream.
There are no other souls of which to speak.
Here I have been captive, in a place far from home, these last seven years.
But there is a place that I imagine where the gates are open.
There is a place I will return to when the war has ended and I am set free.
And what there is now will not stop what will be.