Dreams; they spoil you
Stroke you gently with the pleasing waves of colours so unreal,
And wake you with the roar of a freight train --
-- rushing through the middle of the head

Walking alone on the meandering hill tracks,
That melted in the mist of moutain tops,
He threw the tattered remains of his past,
Into the frolicking rivers that went by,
When he reached the top, he saw --
another beautiful valley --
-- with many more frolicking rivers,
and a meandering hill track, slipping into the mist

Crimson shadows of the night,
Grew longer by the day,
As he waited for the miracle,
That would flood his life with light

In search of a metaphor,
To end this story the way it began,
With the tender blush of the first kiss,
On a rain swept night,
That ended with the chorus of wailing winds