Dreams

When sleep has fallen, dreams arrive
on misty paths away from bright
and glaring lights, away from life,
away from what is wrong or right,

where you can pick the colours out
unknot the threats of lingering doubt,
and watch life's tapestry unfold,
perfumed, with lustrous strands of gold,

all laid out through the land of dreams
like carpets on the paths of queens,
who languish in some mystic scenes
and disappear in turquoise streams.

But just when dawn with its grey hands
lifts off the blanket, you will sigh,
will stretch the whiteness of your limbs,
for thirsting lips, exposing whims
that daylight always will deny.