Beholden within a dream
A visitor of sorts, one could say
In this land where dirt does gleam
And all feet don't tread the same pathway
I came to a wood, quaint and tired
A disposition not uncommon in forests
They spoke to me wonders, but mired
For all sang only lies in their chorus
Then an old man met me in the road
His grin was a devil, skeletal and mad
He offered me a cloak of golden silk to ease the cold
But before my soul was stolen, fallen to dust it had
At long last I came to the mount
The path wound shrinking all
Ever rising, to the soul pleasing fount
I had not a clue it was my funeral pall
As I lay down to rest, in this dream of dreams
And heavy eyelids sink and close
I know so little and so much of life it seems
As the beating of my heart, it slows
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem