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The tendrils of my mind aloft
found upright among refulgent heights
tangle with the sun rays soft
and manifest as a thousand different nights

for what world could exist in day
without a prolific mind that creates
a night in which the stars can play,
splash 'mongst blackened skies and straits?

And this ever conspiring evening
on which my opportune thoughts drift
must have been created by voices that sing
and by eyes that through a watery world sift.

It can't be created! Not without the supposition
of a world without a night at all.
For we create what we have dreamed, an apparition
of our minds that exists until dreams fall.

And to speak of dreams when asleep,
can it be dreamed without tender nights?
Is this paradox too far of a leap,
in which as a linear mortal I haven't any rights?

To create a dream without dreaming
more than to dream a dream in bed.
Where would we have learned this seaming,
this sewing and reaming of this dreamy thread?

We must have learned it asleep, of course!
But what sleep exists perfect for imagination
if the night did not exist before its source?
Indeed it is a mindful paradox conflagration!

And in that burst of fiery lights
I watch the tendrils of my mind refract
and then I fall asleep at nights
to where my soul and dreams retract.