Cold calls and sweeps those sleeping
For in wakeful sleep do I lay dreaming
The art of living
The art of dying
Has hope of being now so clear.
Call forth my dreams and seek the seeker,
For I, in wakeful sleep
Do dream of those men weaker
Who by will and furled brow
Fail to answer the question: How?
Words, a cry in the dark
Mean less than a morning's lark
For in wakeful sleep one may dream,
Of the sun's life shining
In all its sheen.
Winter's maiden does call to me;
A promise of wakeful sleep,
To set me free
And in sleeping awake I now know
All that I might say is gone,
Now I can only show.