When dreams become meeting grounds of souls scattered far away
And the gentle mists roll down from the white hills,
And time stands still and we talk,
It is love’s country vast
Stretched out in shadows dim,
That we come to see
Only in our frail dreams,
Floating phantoms over the sizzling streams,
And frozen paths in dales scented but strange,
We come to see and talk,
With the Ancient Wizard
Listening in on these snatches of talks,
Between wandering souls
On time-travel
To surreal landscapes otherwise lost,
And the chattering continual,
Whose echoes bounce off the icy winds
That reveal,
The folks and faces remote and in hoary past,
Rising up to meet and walk
On the solitary trails quivering in the grey thick mists
That come travelling down again
And change the bizarre scene
Hardly recalled,
When we wake up
With a complete start.
