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To die is to be disinvited from all the parties,
to wonder without wondering what the wonderful is.
No one knows who is dreaming the dream, my life.
Then why can’t my death be full of dreams?
The best parties I knew were gatherings in dreams.
I loved those rich, mysterious, many-chambered themes
playing out among old, forgotten friends,
dreams, which in my memory flirt with the real.
I yawn darkly; before each sentence, unfathomable how I feel.
Perhaps the dream that paints our dreams is a dream which never ends.
Who slipped this music into my music?
It winds along like Brahms or Chopin
falling from far away.
You have to die now.
No. I think I’ll stay.
