Our human souls, those parts of us,
That when we pass, turn not to dust
May climb the staircases of time,
Move through dimensions instantly, to find
Their way, to unknown places
There to roam in times of deepest sleep
Amidst a wordless world so silent
Thoughts are loud
And take upon themselves their shape
There they move in timeless motion
Fly through uncorrupted truth
Until the point when rudely woken
When we call them
Home to roost
Whereupon their swift arriving
Causing ripples in our brains
Which, not designed were not intended
Ever to record such games
Deposited then within our memory
As they landed, in a heap
Strange memories surviving
From that world so strange and deep
And so it is our dreams are sent us
Mixed, confused, cut up and censored
Souls memories
Of our world of sleep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
'Soul Memories' describes so well the 'mixed, confused, cut up and censored' rememberences of dreams, or soul experiences...lived in the past, in our minds, or just as dreams.