Far away from all this filth and all this stinking mold;
there is a secret and silent garden of unfulfilled dreams
The garden is colorless, neither silver or purple nor gold;
no chirping or singing, just a chaos of cries and screams
Each dream, once it’s shattered and with pain it cries;
it goes to the garden, on some command unspoken
The bird of time does not care and onwards it flies;
while the dreams lay trampled, crying and utterly broken
There he sits at the gate, the old and tattered King;
the sad custodian of dreams, he protects and guards
He has neither a throne, nor a seal or some gold ring;
wearing just a crown of thorns and sharp glass shards
The dreams are his children, only some are his very own;
he cradles their delicate heads, lovingly treats their sores
Some dreams have broken wings, some have never flown;
yet he loves them all, whether they are his, mine or yours
The King has tears in his eyes, he cries over the dreams;
he knows they are going to die, his efforts are in vain
They whimper, life bleeds out, in rivulets and streams;
he knows they are the last drops of the last autumns rain
