The moon hung low,
tragically caught
In the tentacles of a tamarind tree.
And as we walked past
Silvery flakes of moonshine
gently landed on the road.
Some dreams are still born,
some thrive endlessly
Like some mortal obsession,
jealously burning in the past.
Passion is some grime from
some weeks ago.
When a molten heart froze cold.
And some dreams shattered.
to a million pieces.
I am sure I will hear again
a small voice saying
- I do not have a dream.
When your dreams mingle with the moonlight
and become one with the winds.
27/5/02
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