I'm in a sleeping dream again:
Some bloke takes me into a nearby empty room
And asks me why I've done what I've done.
I'm so surprised.
A colleague says she had to tell him
What I'd done.
Before I awake.
Now I see this dream is rooted in memory, real.
Yet how could my Id surprise me yet again?
Did I tap into a source
Was it God
Or someone or something
Who sprang these shocks on me?
Am I two people
Rolled into one?
Or but a radio receiver
Picking up some telepathic waves?
I cannot help but ask these things.
For, when I die, will I
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem