What do babies dream of with
their free, unmoulded minds?
What worlds do they create come
time to shut their eager eyes?
Do they dream in bold, bright shapes
Or are they formless, flowing things?
Like Incandescent, glittering gems
Or a gentle breath that sweetly sings?
What score do they compose
To accompany their fantasy?
Is it made of sounds they heard
unborn - an embryonic symphony?
Do they dream in striking colours, which
my adult eyes used to perceive?
These hues my monolithic mind
Is now too stubborn to conceive.
I knew the answers once, but now
they’re just superficial silhouettes
with edges blurred; smudged shadows
Against a sun that slowly sets.
About the Creator
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