A bouquet of glowing lilacs in my dream yesterday
have become thoughts and butterflies in the garden of life.
Thoughts are flowers,
in the perennial river of fragrance
blossoms in spring
as tulips, cherry, daffodils and primrose.
Thoughts are arrows, piercing the mind
and ***** like thorns, wound like knives.
In the stillness of the ancient pond,
under the blanket of hyacinth blooms
thoughts surface like the fish, leaving the ripples.
Under the full moon,
in the dying stream of consciousness
thoughts kindle the magic of love in the desert sands
with a musical note and perpetual hope.