The wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, the eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, and lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
Time is a dream ... a destroying dream; It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas; It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls.
Death is never an ending, death is a change; Death is beautiful, for death is strange; Death is one dream out of another flowing.
The wind shrieks, the wind grieves; It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again; And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain.
The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you, Opens a door through which you see dark dreams.
Death is one dream out of another flowing.
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