“I dreamt — marvellous error! — that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.”
― Antonio Machado
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
Routed out of slumber’s silent realm
waking in the harsh dark reality of that what was,
for was, was but a dream. . .
Again the dream, each time is different
Yet the meaning and emotion quite the same
To be. . .
It may not be you
but it is some form of you
Sadly having never seen you
nor achingly never having known you
But you are there
kind and nurturing. . .
longing to know you
to see you
to feel you
to see your face,
In sleep you are elusive
Seemingly present, yet not.
In waking, you have never existed
Emptiness fills the heart
Fleeting and just out of reach,
Your smile fills the void
To be loved as in the dream,
In the reality of waking,
leaves the heart spent.
Tears fall as the pearls of a broken strand
worn beautifully around your neck
But that I could gather them up
giving them back to you,
pouring them gently into your warm hands
For in the dream, you are warm. . .
Your eyes tenderly enveloping the now grown child
You see nothing negative, just joy
in what stands before you—
How different would it all have been
You remain hidden
In the shadows of a sleeping mist
You are longed for in wakefulness
A haunting specter longed for in