I still remember
the times of that child
when he dreamed,
resting his head
against the roots of that white tree.
Right there, lying on the moss,
like a rose,
he dreamed of a red camellia.
A breath of music, something
that didn’t make him think.
Not love. But its contours.
Not the confused acting,
not losing oneself to possess.
Only the idea. Only the idea,
untouched, of a conscious reality.
Watching life from afar,
without ever questioning it.
Just like that tree.
The Gods
make our dreams impossible or petty.
Any dream is the same dream.
Let the Gods change my dreams at will,
so long as they don’t take away
the gift of dreaming.
Yet I feel in me all the dreams of the world,
where I wash my destiny.
Ah, time passes,
declining every pale star.
It disappears in the breeze
of a morning sky.
The universe drifts away,
to make space for the next.
Ah, it too has long since gone!
And now I feel exhausted,
a cardiac slave of the stars.
I feel all these I,
that have been or are. Bound by a thread: memory.
And while I dream of myself, I sense someone outside me.
Again I see you.
My childhood, lost city.
So sad and joyful.
Here I am, dreaming once more.
When will I wake?
I am quiet. Alone and calm
in this darkness. I unlearn.
The memory fades.
I live this moment like a religious conversion.
Nothing binds me to the imminent.
Yet something still draws me toward the transcendent.
I have done nothing but dream.
And now I no longer know how to return…
like water left on the shore
after a high tide,
swallowed by the sand…
never to return to the sea.
Now, I wonder who she really was.
Yes, who!?
I only remember that it was her:
slender, affectionate, with blond hair.
Who knows what her name was…
