The dreamer in me keeps on dreaming though my lips are babbling and my eyes are watchful ...
I may be in the railroad terminal speaking to a friend.
The dreamer is on a warm moist hill under the cloud-soft skies,
He feels the Earth moving and smells the flowers down to their roots,
He pierces the blue heavens with his wings.
Then I look round and think, how strange:
Stone walls: crowds: my friend and I ...
Yet all of us seen by the dreamer as a little blur in the skies,
As a patter in immensity ...
Where are we? where is Earth? where are the skies?
The dreamer shivers and laughs:
It is so miraculous, visionary and grotesque,
Such nonsense, this reality ...
Yet my friend and I go on talking as if there were nothing strange in it at all.