My dreams,
A cacophony of foolish poetry,
Somedays in my sleep,
Flown by petals,
A red one
That carries me away,
From the silver hue of wintry earth,
To the land that hatches spring and autumn,
Not to far from the hut,
But far away from trains or cabs.
Near golden tree,
Is the spring field,
Where cuckoo's screech like cawing,
And crows cry like lark,
A folly place to travel at,
But one should know it,
That silence values it all.
The lakes houses shrimps and frogs,
That feeds water and froth.
Sky painted with wings and trodden feet,
But one should know it,
That feet travel high with joy and "lie".
My dreams,
Harks more,
Of changes that change
My dreams,
Swims me across to,
Where painters paint at lakes and sky,
Poets write lives free and frail,
As quill that sits no more,
But fly to find new horizon for "poets and wrecked" .
My dreams,
A trove of rant,
Where  words are colors,
and colors  are words,
Mind free and flesh swaying,
Painting and writing the incredible life,
Where cows have wings and,
Apples on woman's womb.
My dreams,
The unpleasant time's slice,
An scroll of spring that,
Dreams withhold,
and next to it the letter that brings,
Winter so dread and cold,
That carcasses do fly and wither.