Taciturn midnight tosses my dreams,
Touching my nightmares, wandering again;
Juggling my hours, mixing the streams:
Then I wake up thinking, where have I been?
Mind when asleep; an unfathomable pot,
Chasing after invisible things
Random facsimile dramas and plots-
And when we wake up, the screenplay just hangs.
No use pursuing the play interrupted;
The only reel was the one in your brain
As it gathered up images and intercepted-
Not even one frame will be left where you lay.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
So true; many is a time I've fruitlessly attempted to retrive even just a tad-bit of a dream that for all the world seemed to be a paradise...only to vanish in a fleeing vapor, leaving me unable to recall or reconcile what was ABOUT to happen. I wonder: Where do they go? Another great and thought provoking poem my friend... thanks for taking me there.