Over the bitter earth,
sleep has roads that are
labyrinthine; tortuous paths,
parks in flower and in shade and in silence;
deep crypts, ladders to the stars;
puppet plays of hopes and memories.
Little figures pass and smile—
the melancholy playthings of the old—
friendly forms
at the flowery turn of the path,
and rosy visions
which point the road...in the distance...