| Dreams
Life
is but a predestined cart,
|
| Yet,
when night greets,
When the sun bows gratefully, When the curtain veil closes, When destination is left for another day, The milky consciousness, Whirling inside the mindful cup, And the hearty elixir, Quenched by a day's ride, It is then, as decided by fate, The eyes become sightless, The ears become senseless. |
And through the unseeing illusion,
Like the arrows of time,
Through the vanishing reverie,
Speeding towards the windows of reality,
Raining towards the deepest recesses,
Hear, at the bottommost pit,
To reveal what the self never could,
The mystic land of dreams.
Where fantasy reveals itself,
In manners most incomprehensible,
That vision, stoned by temptation,
Could not seek, a place,
Where substance defies logic,
Where truth lingers endlessly,
A land more real than life,
That horizon is but a step away.
And death is but a blissful end.
Dreams,
But a painting of thoughts,
As timeless as without signs,
Apprehension without fear,
Where thoughts are no longer thoughts,
Where matter are no longer real,
Where the mind is sunk,
By waves of oblivion.
Dreams,
But a shadow of self,
As spaceless as without boundaries,
Joy without bliss,
Covered from rays of reality,
The self bespeaks self,
Without any sense nor direction,
The voice resounds everywhere.
Dreams,
But an ocean of answers,
As mystical as without secrets,
Melancholy without sadness,
Like drops of rainbow,
Splashing over the pool.
Illuminating in perfect motion,
Reflecting in every direction,
The night passes away,
As all that lives must end,
When the Sun gives his smile,
And all that is gloom retires,
Here, as that fiery bolt,
Rips through slumber,
Ambition reawakens,
And the cart,
Driven for eternity,
To travel once more,
Before fate decides,
It should dream again.
Alan Chong
© January 1999
| Midi Title: I'll think about it tomorrow |