Dreaming
Poetry is as blind as an ass. It sings to the air, yet produces nothing.
It is as hollow as a dead tree. The wind sings through it and makes melodies,
more beautiful and more serene than the harshest words can play.
We are mortal. Our words fade into dust. Immortality is a lie.
What are words but the memories of ourselves, in a time that does not exist?
Yesterday, we did not exist. We believe, yet belief has only romantic colors,
shimmering ideals of the time before the last, when we dreamed and awoke.
It is as hollow as a dead tree. The wind sings through it and makes melodies,
more beautiful and more serene than the harshest words can play.
We are mortal. Our words fade into dust. Immortality is a lie.
What are words but the memories of ourselves, in a time that does not exist?
Yesterday, we did not exist. We believe, yet belief has only romantic colors,
shimmering ideals of the time before the last, when we dreamed and awoke.