I live in the past
Where my mother washes dishes
By the riverside. The pots and pans
Were forged by my father
As the Gods slept
In the mud huts on an afternoon.
Then, kindness was a cot
Where the Gods forgot to fold
The wrinkles of Time.
And I dreamt of lullabies
In cradles of civilisations
Along the birthplaces of History.
I dreamt my mother
Had once again
Given birth to me
And led me by her hands
Through the long ages of Man.
Once again the milk and honey
Of Philosophy,
The traditions of War,
Once again
The green and somber forests
Of speculative thought.
Then, the fingers of winds
Fumbled among sea-chests
Of our bewildered shores
Even as the hurrying herdsmen
Brought the night closer
To the whispering trees
And blankets of dusk grew moist
With the magic of sleep....
