Listen to poem:
The Dreams
He wanders along the tail of the Milky Way.
His cloud-soft steps skim the blue of the sky.
He plays with time, teases the wind, grows breathless.
On tiptoe, he brushes the squares of a hopscotch.
In deep sleep, a dream carries him toward infinity —
to see his youth again, the smiles of vanished years,
to imagine that anything is possible in the night,
to become Balthazar, finally reaching the Shepherd’s Star.
The cold of emptiness, the dizziness of a cliff he flees,
the darkness of a chasm — he screams in fear as he falls.
Agitated, sweating, gasping, he wakes on borrowed life.
In dreams, anything is possible; he travels through time.
A gentle music licks him, tames his heart.
It enters his mind, awakens the source of his tears.
The sounds crash, swirl, circle around him, flattering.
The Dream is an open-sky theatre, the Harp of our Souls.
Joël Charvillat
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