I laid a field of poppies,
To put my dreams to rest.
I sowed the seeds and did great deeds,
To reap what I deemed best.

Infantile wishes,
those infantile goals,
crushed amongst the pollen,
of the poppy’s gold.

I did not know the sea breeze would pass,
through the valley of my soul,
and lift the slumber that held them tight,
and make them known once more.

I thought I killed my wishes,
but now they come in droves.
From death do my dreams arise,
to choke me down deep inside.