Are Dream's Memories

Softly the twilight calls my name, A touch of silver in your hair, Like echoes lost within a flame, Like footsteps fading on a stair. Did I not once, in days unknown, Walk through a garden pale with light, Where roses sang in undertone And stars burned longer in the night? I cannot tell what time has spun A thread of dream within my hand, Or if I stood beneath that sun That warmed a long-forgotten land. A voice too faint, a touch too far, Yet haunting still— Like dust of some extinguished star, Whose light remains, but not the will. Do dreams recall, or do they weave? What once was true, we still believe.