My Dreams

1970's




My dreams
Are not of yesterdays
Or of tomorrows
Or of pleasures
Or of happiness
Nor of fears.

My dreams
Are not fragile images
That are discarded or broken
When time has run its course.

Nor are they an emptiness
That can never be filled
Nor an existence that could
Never be born.

My dreams
Are the perfume of my nightimes
The patience of my day
The morning dew.
The rain that makes the desert
A home for flowers
The wind that buffs the ragged cliffs
Into a cradle for the sea.




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