I used to call her in my worst nights.
And she would come, said she had a cure.
The cure of sorrow, she claimed.

I’d always laughed over it, still she did it anyway.
“Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”
Though it was silly, still I did it anyway;
I hold out my hand.

She’d grab my hand and say these,
In the tune that flows like a lullaby;

It is not a crime to welcome a hand,
To receive one’s help.
And it is not a sin to hold out your hand,
To ask for one’s help.

And every single time I would fall asleep,
Into a deep sleep with no dream,
For my dream was so close,
So close I could feel it between my fingers.