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.
About the Creator
MecAsaf
Hello, my lovelies!
Welcome
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