I thought of a thought:
How the world is overwrought
With repeating and thinking.
Repeating and thinking, I am caught.
O turning star! O earth revolving, as my dream taught.
And dreaming, I thought, this is a dream—this is not me!
Old age is the strangest dream—old? Is this me?
Life is a dream, only a dream; this, then, is how I feel.
Death will be a birth. Death and life are dreams—preparing us for the real.
Our death was a long dream: life. When I die next, I will be
Not the bare earth surviving under the cold breeze,
But thought escaping thought. Can this be my last thought, please?