MY DEAD DREAM

Have you found me, at last, O my Dream?

Seven aeons ago

You died and I buried you deep under forests

of snow.

Why have you come hither? Who bade you

awake from your sleep

And track me beyond the cerulean foam of the

deep?

Would you tear from my lintels these sacred

green garlands of leaves?

Would you scare the white, nested, wild

pigeons of joy from my eaves?

Would you touch and defile with dead fingers

the robes of my priest?

Would you weave your dim moan with the

chantings of love at my feast?

Go back to your grave, O my Dream, under

forests of snow,

Where a heart-riven child hid you once, seven

aeons ago.

Who bade you arise from your darkness? I

bid you depart!

Profane not the shrines I have raised in the

clefts of my heart.