The Sleeping
Apparently, the exact date is unknown.
It is not unknowable.
Someone, somewhere breathing air
Remembers.
Their memory sings forgotten songs
And lives when all around is dead.
This sleep is not confined to bed;
It wanders where the dreamers lean
On shoulders stiff and stuffed with
Talk of yesterday’s routine.
Alleyways and undergrounds and
Lanes that lead like branches
To some slumber-buried root;
This is where the sleepers slip away
For days on end,
For days that still remain the same
Whatever difference life does lend.
Who knows from where this drowsy
Draught of stupefying air blew in?
How long ago,
So few must know?
Yet centuries stale tell such a tale
Of automatic thought.
The Sleeping has crept
And man has slept inside
His shuttered mind.
Wake up.
And hear the birds.
Their songs are words we heard
Before we fell and flew away.
No comments:
Post a Comment