flowing thoughts

 My dream, that which is born in every season, that does not die, that if it shines, the bird carries its bed-sticks to its room, which it truly knows, which does not know itself, which has age for all ages, which has beauty, the genius of poetry, and which has pain the energy of contentment to live under writing cap. My dream, which I read in a book, then I saw it on the cinema screen, and then I remembered that it was floating with me, on a plank of wood, in the flood. Which I had never wished for, and I emigrated and met it in the night. The one who I realized, after long incense, that it is only mine to dream, and that there is no share, so I resorted it, to escape from my impossible dream, to the writing vault.  Everyone left me: everyone left, they all left, looking for in books, in cinemas, in the alleys, and in the hollows of the world. Poets fly in the air. Sufis permeate the pores of danger towards the absolute. Prophets in wells, in prairies, on crosses, and in seclusion cav