I dreamed a dream, and saw it fall
in ashes on the ground.
I saw a vision like a cloud
that passed without a sound.
I reached for stars, and found I grasped
the empty air around.
What is this strange proclivity
for strangled dreams inside my hand?
Even the smallest cursed be
and crunch in teeth like gritty sand.
"The storms of life," they say, "will come,"
but mine seems more a parching wind.
A storm will pass, leave rain behind
yet this dry mistral no life gives.
The purposes I cannot see;
the ashes blind my eyes;
yet sometime in a blighted land
clouds must come rolling in.