Dream
If dreaming really
were a kind
of truce
(as people claim), a sheer repose of mind,
why then if you should
waken up abruptly,
do you feel that something has been stolen from you?
Why
should it be so sad, the early morning?
It robs us of an inconceivable gift,
so
intimate it is only knowable
in a trance which the nightwatch
gilds with dreams,
dreams that might very well be reflections,
fragments from
the treasure-house of darkness,
from the timeless sphere that does not have a
name,
and that the day distorts in its mirrors.
Who will you be tonight in your
dreamfall
into the dark, on the other side of the wall?