The Woolgatherer
Had I not witnessed with my eyes
The massive throng of empty dreams,
I would have fallen for the guise
That all is better than it seems.
The awful truth that lies within,
Its harsh intents I shan’t forgive.
How cruel, alas, deceit has been;
To make me think that all dreams live.
And on that fateful night I met
The shepherd’s twin on timber sitting.
He was collecting in his net
Some empty thoughts, and meekly knitting.
“Woolgatherer, woolgatherer.”
I said with eager dreamer’s tongue.
He had the look of wanderers,
That many deaths have dwelt among.
“How many dreamers have there been
Who’s dreams on solid grounds were crushed?”
“To tell the truth, I can’t begin.”
He spun his words at me, quite rushed.
“The broken dreams…” I said to him,
“What will happen to the pieces?
Will they run, or fly, or swim,
Or simply die? (Their life ceases)”
What he said I won’t forget,
His flabbergasting scheme:
“I’ll pluck the fragments with my net
And build a better dream.”
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