The Dreaming Boy
The earth, it speaks of the dreaming boy;
the trees, they echo his name.
The brilliant sun in the summer sky
remembers the day he came.
His steps, they fell on the cobbled path
in a steadily crooked beat,
with a white dove in his outstretched hand
and gold soles beneath his feet.
The dreaming boy, so he called himself,
sat upon his hill of glass.
He watched as his days went rolling by;
he watched, but refused their pass.
The boy with his eyes like living jewels
and his heart with ice-bound seams,
always believed that he had yet
to be woken from his dreams.
So his dove, his soles, and his clear glass hill,
they faded out of his hands,
like the even tide of the ocean shore
dissolves in its golden sands.
And the dreaming boy, though he was no more,
for he saw with a broken heart
that the wasted time wand’ring through his days
had been real from the very start.
The earth, it tells of the dreaming boy;
the trees, they whisper his name.
The silver moon in the diamond sky
breathes soft of the day he came.