Kyrgyz Waking

Alone, I sit here.  The sun struggles to set behind the mountains, the dark is warred off by the last specks of rays.  The sounds of children laughing in the deep background, playing amongst the noise of dogs barking, traffic whizzing by, and the barely audible call to prayer.  Is this a dream, have I been here before?

The table in the centre of the courtyard is covered in a plastic table cloth.  The compound is closed to all visitors.  Curfew will begin in shortly, and all the mice return home.  The cheese is laid out for the dreamers, free for all to take.  Except the dog, who is shooed off with a stamping foot.

Alone, the water sits here.  In a bottle, protected from the elements.  It's hot.  Darn hot.  Everything sweats, including the minor birds who dip in the Chineese pool bought from the bazaar.  The leaves sit there, still as the trunk that bares its weight.  The roses blossom in the last of the light, petruding from the garden.  Roses? You look twice.

The stars that are yet to arrive are protected.  An international aid organisations' tarpaulin sits above you, protending it is protecting you from the stiffling heat that wafts under every breath.  A child, protected by hands, surrounded by an olive branch, stares at you from above.

Was it a dream when I was in a suit on the train, heading to the central business district only two weeks ago?  Or was it a dream when I was in a cafe sipping latte's and eating croissants.  Perhaps this is the dream?

Kyrgyz waking.