Do dreamers still row their boats
In the soft and misty air?
I used to be one of them –
Starry-eyed and impractical.
My fingers knew how to push a pen
But bread was not forth-coming.
So rather than starve and drop
I chose to plant my feet on earth;
At least, assured of daily bread,
Some sort of peace was well in place,
Not to mention “respectability”!
“At last he’s come to his senses!”
But I lost so much, which no one knew:
I lost the sense of who I was
(I mean the truth of who I really was).
I was so distant from myself;
I knew not how to find me. How
Can I be lost when I am here?
The stars I held so gently in my hands
Died out last night and turned to dust.
My eyes no longer shine and sparkle
(I am a man engaged in serious things).
“Balder the beautiful is dead.” I weep!
"Balder the beautiful is dead." I sleep …
