THE SLEEPER AND THE DREAMER
It is a passion with no threshold,
no balm and no illness –
in it the dreamers gladly die,
for a dream to awake.
It knocks quietly at the door,
and a World enters
wild and sounding.
It gasps strongly above the sleeper.
The palms cover the chest,
the spirit like a candle
watches from the forehead.
Wings to the feet,
and outside is night.
Here tales happen,
remembrance is the future,
and tomorrow passed.
Time tosses and turns at the sleeper’s feet.
And while oblivion takes its revenge,
an unlike man, indifferent and thirsty,
rises, trembles, and abandons the room.
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