The land of plenty

The most painful moment

Of the day is the one

That greater joy unleasheas,

And my soul is dully unaware.

Don't blame my mourning

Spirit, it is grey and lonely.

It runs wild on the grassy

Hills of sleep, jolly and

Blushing dips in the rivers

Where memories do not haunt,

But they confort me.

Parades of ghosts that seem

Not to be, dance and smile

And bodily play. Don't blame

My mourning spirit. Yours would

Be deceived too, by the games

Of Dream, that wraps around me

As the sun rises, then

Leaves me as the sun is high

And hidden into the iron sky.

There I awake joyful

To feel the pain, to face

The rain, for dreams will

Come again and together we shall be.