"Записки недопросветленного [поэзия]" - читать интересную книгу автора (Лайтбрингер Тимонг)

Мечта

We all are given rare gift - The time will pass, the planes will shift, But for as long as we have dreams To live through time we have the means. The dream may free, the dream may kill, The dream may heal and make one ill, The dream may bless, the dream may curse, It's paradise - and the abyss. The dream is not the thing to share, And pure dreams are truly rare, So many dim, yet some as flare … But one will never lay them bare. The dream is like the guiding light, Yet its existence makes a plight, And when one dreams of other's love His own feelings bent to muff. The dream is powerful somehow ... I, too, once dreamed of pure love, But when it turned to be a bluffer - The time has come for one to suffer. There is no time for second thought, That dream is doomed to die and rot, Through withered lands I'm passing by ... The dream is foe, not ally. For when one hide in endless dreams Theirs bitter nature feed his sins - When their poison flow through vein One only strengthen own pain. But once the pain is forsaken, And pieces of shattered dream are taken, I will create new one and sate ... Is that is how the dream degrade ? Those ones who cannot dream of sky Will never have the will to fly, And they are bent to comfort's sins For they know not such things as dreams. I will still keep my dream of other, If not for me - than for another.