The Garden of Unfulfilled Dreams


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


Each dream, when it breathes it’s very last and silently dies;

he gently kisses their dead eyes, murmuring the last lullaby

The King is sad, oh he is so very sad, but still he desperately tries;

weaving new dreams, without asking ‘to what end’ or even ‘why’

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