I don't have dreams about the dead.
I don't convoke them.
Let them hang in the clouds, as happy as white swans.
Sometimes I am a troubadour.
In my sleepless brain
I go through the memories of those who are gone.
Although trying to keep my dreams completely clear,
The dead are always with me.
Through sorrow to tears.
I don't dream about the perished.
Why to torment?
The emptiness is empty, see-through like a veil.
Nothing can fulfil it, life goes on like a mourner.
With a spider's thread you cannot stitch the broken rail.
“Bywam trubadurem” by Renata Cygan
Translated by RC
Commenting expired for this item.