A figure haunts my weary dreams.
From the darkest pits of time
It slowly rises as in smoke
And gently waving pensive arms
Casts a thousand-questions glance.
Out of time I grope about
In the vacant room of dream
And watch the slide of pouring sands
Which scream and tell me what I lost.
Out of ashes drenched with tears
Rose the blooming golden moon
And begged me then with open arms
To leap into a hope of bliss.
Tangled all in rotten weeds
I could only fall and sigh.
Caught in clock, I trudge along
And queue-up for my rationed joy.