Saturday, March 29, 2008



A dream has its own existence.
Has its own immaculate body.
Like the blue hill faraway
Exotic, like a floating feather...

But for that old man
In his hut on the hill
It’s neither blue nor exotic.
It’s a morsel of food.
A drop of clear water.

Dreams inhabit a different world.
Beyond us and surrounding us,
We live in glass jars, made of dreams.

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