I dream my blasphemies. Across the sky
I write these dreams: dreams they may be, but flight
Will make them true. Illumined in that light
Do I dare dream? What stills, what moves my eye?
Some nights I dream that dreams become this I,
And I am spread by dreams to dim and bright.
In dreaming, then, I lay my every right—
And when the morning comes, these dreams will die.
When I so dream, do I awake to live?
My questions never cease: a dream is just
A dream, they say—and wisely so; but must
These dreams be untrue? In dreaming do I give
Myself to truer faiths: my dreams are me.
I dream reality—must truth, in dreaming, be?
The hour grows late. Clouds caress the sky,
As sunset glows its tender violet light.
Within each hue lies dreams of dark and light;
The warm sunlight an omnipresent eye.
And in the clouds—to feel my truthful I:
So sweetly singing as the moon turns bright,
The day turns dark and night enfolds my right.
In being true it is as if to die—
These hours pass; in solitude I live,
And darkness tells me what is wrongly just;
Upon the windowsill my moonlight must
Help carefully trace the truths I want to give…
I melt into the night: the night is me.
In every dream lies what I want to be.
In finding who I am I ask the sky.
It answers solemnly: Go, find your flight.
And I go on to ask the dawning light,
That bids me look into my deepest eye.
What am I finding? Where is the mystery I?
If clouds can keep the sun from shining bright,
Them power to know myself is all my right;
Even with dwindling time my hopes don’t die.
Who is this I, that deserves such to live?
And how, in hiding, can he prove his just?
I seek me always. Always it’s a must:
If even I deny this hope I cannot give,
Then I am lost, and how will I be me,
When there is nothing I can truly be?
I love you. All the starts burning the sky
Are matchless to your swooping angel-flight.
Suffused within your warmth and touch so light
Is rest, beneath the lashes of your eye.
I love you. In this time of you and I,
Entwining as our flames burn ever bright,
And on my path of life, you on my right—
Let me be sated: in you I will die,
For oh! I love you. Will you let me live
In you? For it is foolish, seeking just
To live—I love, and otherwise I must
So immolate myself. My heart I give:
Will you, too, trust your treasured core to me?
I love you—let us passionately be.
I am. In such a phrase lives on the sky
Where certainty, in solitude, takes flight.
By knowing every way to reach the light,
They fight, they fade; they look through blinded eye.
A single path is left. And that is I—
I am. The sky is mine, so pure and bright.
And when I fly my soul is by my right,
My body will be left behind to die.
Thus when I know I am, I start to live.
Lest more of life be wasted than is just,
Believe—for so believing is a must.
Safe in myself, this certainty I give.
Thus what it is that lives on here in me,
It makes me me, and who I want to be.
I dreamt I was a cloud of evening sky.
And in the healing breeze I floated flight.
To east I saw the darkness killing light
But yet to west the sun would blind my eye.
Betwixt extremities I live—’tis I,
That dwell where sleep makes night and darkness bright.
Enchained between the two worlds, left and right,
The day has not yet come for me to die.
When do I wake? When I thus think I live,
Yet living in this world where death is just,
I learn, awake, to slumber—indeed, I must;
For if I lack in dreams I’ve naught to give.
This world is far from housing only me,
But since I am, out, out!—please let me be.