I remember when I could dream,
not of flying or unknown worlds-
The dreaming- a divine whisper-
breathed into my soul when my mind,
the foul, rational sentry,
still slept on the walls of my heart.
I remember well the Dreaming,
when the blessed child learned how to sing
unaccompanied by the pall
of things boring adults know-
bound by deeds boring adults do,
going where they dare not to go.
The cancer of the "adult" life
dims all the twinkling in the eyes.
The boredom of expectation-
that things before are things to come-
haunts the ever-circling footsteps
that bind the body and the soul.
The child still longs for the Dreaming.
At the stirring of the water
or at the stirring of the soul,
the child will dance and sing and play,
clear the dust of things expected
and in the dreaming truly wake.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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very good!
"Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder."
E.B. White
Charlotte's Web
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