isn't it beautiful?
the way we come to life, full of dreams,
and become dreams once our corpses
rest upon gently on brown soil?
dreams aren't only a reflection of ourselves,
but what we wonder and seek;
the fall of snowflakes
and the white flocks fast asleep.
- dreams are the daily fragments of magic we have in our lives.
and just as water, it does not need any other explanation.
for dreams as water are ancient
the first language came from them - but see, only the first ghost would know that.
they share the same blanket - weaved
from the finest silk, the first one, from a spider web.
and they parted together - on a evening's eve.
you may dream when entering a sea
and you may also dream of seas - they're magic is one - one you may wear, the other may wear you.
the water as a cloth may be woven from the bluest wave, slipping through your skin as tender as a cloud made of linen.
and the dream is your skin - for it comes from the heart, the soul and the mind. it feels light - while the blood rushes and the heart beats - you feel light, as a feather; inexplicable as a Dream.
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Tecelã de Sonhos - Poesia D'água
PoetryMyths, 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...
