The Two Dreams

And he went on another journey.
Has the firmament spoken to him,
of the greatest wonders that lie,
the elegant ones dwelling afar.
And the lone wanderer wore on the robe of white,
Strolling toward the beyond,
On to another journey,
The journey of perpetual suffering, of forever elapsed.

Alas! How misled the poor man!
How harrowing the misty journey!
Thorns above the dunes,
Beasts over the fields,
Tortured the defenseless mind of the thinker,
Slaying him below the deepest canyon,
Where the cliffs were mountains,
Over the bottomless abyss.

But, my friend, has the man travelled, yet witnessed:
Not merely the plains under the sky, covered by stormy clouds,
Nor the ridges across the lands, unseen by the most;
The two dreams have the wanderer experienced.
Dreams of the past untold,
Dreams of the stories lost,
Unveiled by the taleteller,
Perished upon his cost.


Has it been nearing the sunrise,
Where the firmament glinted dark;
That the crystals have sparkled upon,
Hiding behind the nebula’s mark.
Descending moon and the greyish sky,
Beclouded by the purplish mist
That furnished all sights of the eye.

Noiseless, as if resting on the canvas of the air; thick, as if white fogs over the morning lakes. Has it been projected on to the second dimension, where the purple fumes has blurred the landscape, leaving all but violet paint to be seen. Nor has it been devoid of silence; nothing has been heard but the echoing footsteps of the lone man.

…And the air was tinted with weirdness.

Has it been nearing the sunrise,
When the lone wanderer came to seek
For his long-waited salvation,
In the pace with the rising one.
Has he sought to perceive
Of the vast land he dwelled upon,
The dark shadow before the dawn.
Distorted, was the surrounding;
Curled leaves of the tilted tree,
Warped shapes of the fallen stone,
As if crumpled, crushed,
Leaving the wanderer stroll alone.

Has it been nearing the sunrise,
When the seeker walked in the city.
Upon the streets, within the alley,
Has he stepped forward at the start,
Over the cobbled slates cracked apart.

Would he have seen the buildings,
Faded, waned,
Intangible to the mortals.
Would he have touched the corners,
Tangled, twisted,
Circling with no ends.

…As if infinite variations of the visions,
Visions of his past, of his future.

And the distorted images overwhelmed his mind,
With him stepping into a fort of stone.
Has it been the hall of torches,
Of perpetual screams and laughter,
And the deformed figures carved within.

Has he walked to the hollowed window,
Whereupon he seeks,
Through the violet fog above the warped land,
Toward which the sun would rise upon.

And the walker hiked upon the wasteland.
Has the atmosphere been once again silent,
But the echoing footsteps of the wanderer…


Once happened in another dream,
Has days and months passed by,
When the wanderer sat in the garden,
Of blossoms, ladybug, and firefly.

Behold! Peacefulness has filled upon,
Where the man meditated,
Through the fountains and vines of his lawn,
With the flow of the water,
The song of the bird.

Indeed, has it been the tranquility of mind,
The reconciliation of the thinker’s own,
Whereupon he contemplated
Across his forgotten bygone.

Has the seeker been chanting,
his voice penetrating the air,
Resonating with all leaves
Upon all the branches, over all the trees,
With the blossoms and the breeze
That danced within the peace.

Has the air been listening
To his voice that chanted,
Understanding the words of eloquence
And the phrases of charm.
And the garden spoke to him:

Man with wisdom! Shall I lead you to the further knowledge that brings you closer upon. Where you meditated through the elegant chanting, shall you observe the scenes that faded old.

Alas! Has the man been submerged
Within his long-forgotten past.
How nostalgic the past!
Shattered memories torn apart,
Floating upon the sea of mind,
And tears dropped.
How mournful the wiseman!
Unseized past that elapsed,
Forever becoming the bygone.
And tears rained.

Silenced streets of infinite mirrors,
Where the man once dwelled.
Villas behind the gardens,
Standing upon, staring upon
The lone wanderer that walked.

Has he heard the piano sound of every house,
Playing his most beloved ones
That flashes out from tranquility,
And dives within.
Yet for one transience,
Has the music stopped,
Leaving all but silence
That enchanted the street –
The street of tranquility.

And the man faded, invisible.

Has he come to the lake surrounded by willows. As if the aqua-blue canvas, yet the transparent mirror, the lake lay upon, waiting for its visitors. Waving were the willows, greeting their guests, yet weeping, as if telling those that were forgotten. Rich grasslands ended upon the verging of the bank, leaving the barren stones barricading the shore. Lifeless were they, yet cultivated water and the tiny sprouts. Yet all but the silence could be heard, as if the paradise of meditation, devoid of any distractions. And yes, the wiseman has arrived, sitting by the soilless reefs. As if cut up any connections with the outer world, as if borne within the inner zone of mind, has he shut his vision, leaving the imagination to travel afar. Yet once more has he travelled, through his mind, through his vision, above the lake of opportunity, the lake of meditation.