Philosophical stone

They don't know that the dream

it's a constant of life

so concrete and definite

like anything else,

like this gray stone

where I sit and rest,

like this gentle brook

in quiet surprises,

like these tall pines

that in green and gold stir,

like these birds that scream

in drunks of blue.

They don't know that the dream

it's wine, it's foam, it's yeast,

happy and thirsty little animal,

pointed snout,

that cesspool through everything

in perpetual motion.

They don't know that the dream

it's canvas, it's color, it's brush,

base, shaft, capital,

pointed arch, stained glass,

cathedral spire,

counterpoint, symphony,

greek mask, magic,

which is an alchemist's retort,

distant world map,

wind rose, infant,

sixteenth-century caravel,

which is Cape of Good Hope,

gold, cinnamon, ivory,

swordsman's foil,

backstage, dance step,

Columbine and Harlequin,

flying bird,

lightning rod, locomotive,

festive bow boat,

blast furnace, generator,

splitting the atom, radar,

ultrasound, television,

rocket landing

on the lunar surface.

They don't know, nor dream,

that the dream commands life.

That whenever a man dreams

the world jumps and moves forward

like colored ball

between the hands of a child.