Dreams

What to speak of these dreams of mine,
What to say, that will not be lost or forgotten with them,
They come only as disjointed images,
They stay only as withered, estranged memories,
Remembered, only to be forgotten,
And forgotten to be rekindled in these nights,
From dusk to dawn I dream,
But morning arrives and I open my eyes to the world,
Reminded, I am then, only of facts,
Of figures, that prove the futility of dreams,
Sometimes in slumber, sometimes while wide-awake,
I dream still,
For it gives me satisfaction and desire and hope,
Hope, of respite, of retribution,
Of solitude, of all the time in the world,
And all this time to myself, to remember to dream…