You close your eyes, worn out
from the dreadful work down here underground.
You must be dreaming,
for dreams can never be chained.
And let them turn the mine into hell,
you suffer just to remain an angel.
On your shoulders, like wings, rests kindness,
and you soar through your dream.
Where are you going like that? Ah, I know—
even dreams grow weary of chaos,
and feel the cold just like you do,
with only a prisoner’s coat for warmth.
And I won’t even speak of how dreams are killed—
I have wandered among their graves.
Often, they slay our dreams first,
and the dreams mourn us like widows.
Suddenly, you woke. You smile, frightened,
just returned from that happy place.
Your forehead, still full of dream,
I know—it looks more beautiful that way.
