In the grim hollow halls
Of a stained-window day
Come our dreams of the night
Which come again to play
They don't knock on any doors
They just walk into your head
They haven't any boundaries
But their grounds are your bed
Though they seem to be so real
You can touch them with your hands
They are much like the heavens
Which nobody understands
They feed upon your fears
In a frenzy, as it seems
But in the wombs of all your hopes
Lie the passions of your dreams
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem