DREAMERS

Let’s leave all of this, you said,

Our house awaits us.

You shall be my shepherd; I’ll be your shepherdess.

We’ll feed ourselves on from freshly milked cows

And dandelions.

I’ll learn how to knit,

You promised,

And you, you’ll tell me stories

At dusk before we fall asleep.

Does our meadow exist,

I asked,

That deep green grass,

Our chestnut horses with flying manes,

A brook from which I pick out pebbles,

Like precious stones,

While you splash your tiny feet,

Which I wipe with my shirt afterwards?

Of course, you said,

Confidently and definitively:

We are our own gods.

Don’t worry,

You, the admirer of fire and water both,

You shall start a fire in the furnace every evening

Before you carry me

Into our paradise.

I watched you, believing childishly

In a dream that you dreamt with your eyes open,

On this river bank,

While you fantasized

In your name and mine.

I kept kissing you unforgettably,

Almost desperately,

For hours, which

Irrevocably

Slid out of our

Lives.

And I listened to you.

Slavishly.