Dreams are made of imaginary foam,
Tell me little birdie,
Where are they now?
It seems to be all over,
Looking for that four leaf clover,
Over...illusions not knocking at my door,
Reality keeps saying, nevermore,
I know...When certain loves are gone,
It's hard to feel the morning Sun.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very tender thoughts which I really can identify with.