we go into the arms of death - unarmed
as we go into sleep to rest - with dreams we drip.
alone we find ourselves
beyond the kisses of gentle lips
and a gentlemen's hands to shake.
but in dreams we may speak of it,
without the tedious light falling down
on the bed you woke to find your own self - bare, stripped of soul.
just as alone as the last flower;
unpicked, dying away over autumn's gaze.
in dreams we are one,
over the eyes of gods we stay
to be remembered,
marked as a ghost to holiness
sanctified and melting away;
golden, unmoved - still as lilium amber.
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Tecelã de Sonhos - Poesia D'água
PoésieMyths, Dreams and Poetry. port/eng it is a hymn as much as it is an obsession - but isn't it holy? - Vim d'uma morosa manhã de abril, cresci como coruja cantante na copa do pau-brasil, tornei-me como bruma e desfiz-me...
