I’ll dream new dreams in
a land far away,
new poems will remain,
about a beautiful girl, I say.

My words will flicker
between fingers on an old guitar,
and she will wait for me there,
in some wondrous bookstore afar.

There, my words will mark,
prominently displayed,
like eyes that flash in the dark,
a destiny beautifully portrayed.

I’ll rest silent in grave by then,
while she dreams of me,
each verse I’ve penned,
awakening her memorie.

Everything will be spoken,
my poetry appreciated,
to you, unknown beloved woman,
this poem is dedicated.

You will be created as a product of a fairy tale,

I will weave you of flowers and rhyme,

without father and mother you will wail,

the Child of dreams is your name for this time.



I will know you by the tapping of the rain,

and you will be like the mystic herself,

queen of the empire, sometimes and thane,

a bandit girl, but more often the elf.



You'll know how to play in the mud,

like a country girl, and so beautiful,

in the Great War you will be scud,

you will always be simple, immutable.



And you will never, never leave me,

no matter how angry fate has befallen us,

a picture of a holy woman you will be

to the end of the road without discuss.



Then I will give everyone a free hand,

there will be no chase not even after me,

misfortunes and torments will be manned

and someone else will give fairy tales humanity.