“You told me, mother, that our dreams
Are drawn by a sacred hand at night,
The dream is a window to the future
Where the eyes of our soul get a sight.
Mother, I was dreaming something,
Would you explain to me what it meant?
I had wings and I was flying
All over, without an end.”
‘My dear son, sunshine of my soul,
Happier I could not have been,
God almighty will give you long life,
This is the joyful secret of your dream!’—
And the child grew, his young age
Kept a flame lit in his chest,
While the song, a soothing relief,
Gave his heaving heart a rest.
The youngster grabbed a lute
And put his sentiments in a song
And on its wings, his glowing feelings,
Like birds, were flying all around.
The magic song flew to the sky,
Brought the star of fame down
And from its beams, around his head,
It weaved a shining crown.
But the fruit of the song is poison
And each flower the poet takes away
From his heart into his lute
Cuts his life one precious day.
His feelings caught fire that turned into hell
And he became the prey of flames,
Hanging to a branch of the tree of life
On earth that’s how he remains.
He lies on his death-bed,
Child of much torment
And hears the faltering voice
Of his heart-broken parent:
‘Death, don’t take him from my arms;
Don’t let my dear boy die,
Heaven promised him a long life …
Or our dreams only lie? …’
“My dear mother, dreams are not lying,
Although a winding-sheet is my cover,
The glorious name of your poet son
Will survive forever and ever!”