Why are the people on the sides of the road
staring at me on this busy market day?

Why do they look at me
like they have never seen me before?

I know this road.
I know this market.
I know this place.

The church bell on the right side
feels like home—
my alarm.

Even on a busy evening,
the road seems clean and tidy.

One side of the street
is filled with people
busy selling fruits and vegetables.

What are they selling?
Let me look.

On the left side,
there is a lake with a small bridge.

I know this small bridge.

Let me walk across it.

There,
I can see the green lawn.

Actually,
the flowers look similar to my dress.

I coloured my gown
from the flowers—
like lilies.

And the yellow petals
resemble my earrings.

The wind is still brushing my curly hair.

Maybe I haven’t worn anything on my ankles.

Hey daisies,
can you be my anklets?

Oh—
I haven’t taken an armlet.

Hey violets,
can you become my bracelets?

Oh my God…
everything seems so pretty,
so lively.

Yet the people around me
still stare
like they do not know me.

Maybe it is the colour of my skin.

The young women looking at me
seem like fairy-like angels,
but their eyes hold questions,
not familiarity.

Should I ask them—
Don’t you remember me?
Don’t you know me?

Or is it the colour of my brown hair
they admire?

My eyes turned golden
amid admiring theirs.

While wandering through the streets,
the stones,
the coldness,
the misty air—

a strange sense of belonging
pounds within my heart.

Will it rain?

The clouds trick you
like a rainy evening.

And there—
near the River Thames—

I see two swans,
along with nymphs,
awaiting a celebration to begin.

Have the twins of Zeus
not arrived yet?

I looked up at the sky
and prayed to Venus—

May your son bless me
to find my mighty knight.

Let me also write my love story
in this village.

May my wandering soul
find its evening star.

Everything seems so familiar.

Still…
why do they stare?

Maybe the unfamiliar nose ring,
or the golden chain on my neck.

Nobody here wears them.

Maybe because of that.

Still walking through the rose gardens,
I finally saw the church.

The church bell
had become the rhythm of my life.

Its sound connects me
to this old village street.

Suddenly,
a noise interrupted—

not the church bell,
but a phone notification.

I looked at my phone
and saw a message
from a matrimonial site.

Damn.
It was just a dream.

I have not met my knight yet.

I took a sip of coffee,
my favourite poem resting on my chest.

I leaned back
on my swinging chair
with a smile.

I was truly there.

Spenser took me there,
for sure.

And I want to be there again—
not just in dreams…

Maybe someday,
I can build a retired life there,
by the side of the Thames.