I see them in my dreams each night,
She, with her distinctive walk,
And he just smiles, but rarely talks.
They disappear by morning light.
I wake up sad; they’re gone again,
I’m bankrupt at the start of day.
It takes mere minutes to melt away;
Their spirit selves have grown so thin.
The past can strangle with it’s bony hand,
And leave your soul in no-man’s land.
I know they’ve gone and can’t remain,
But dreams can give you what you seek
With a price, unique to each-
And a tax, of waking pain.
A dreams a trick, a fevered lie
When the thinking part’s asleep,
It gives a promise it can’t keep:
In sinking sand, night dreams must die.
The past can strangle with it’s bony hand,
And leave your soul in no-man’s land.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem