The train has already departed,
From the country that they call yesterday,
Into the territories uncharted,
Leaving behind the remains of the day.
Leaving behind the sobbing hills and churches,
And nurseries full of sighing,
And forests of ashen pines and birches,
And the lifetimes full of dying.
Leaving behind letters full of crimson burning,
And clocks whose hearts have stopped,
And books whose pages are full of turning,
And childhoods whose attics are all locked.
Leaving behind a bride that’s dressed in black,
And songs lost in a sea of unceasing echoes,
And a mirror that’s nursing a crack,
And a Rose garden full of stuffed crows.
Leaving behind the rocking horses you kept away,
And the paper boats full of sailing,
And the carnivals where shadows go to play,
And the infirmaries full of ailing.
Leaving behind the man you once called by your name,
Who has already been fed into the fire.
And his vestiges of ash and tears that may remain,
And his old coat of fears and desire.
Leaving behind the waltzes of the left feet,
And the bookmarks of dried lavender,
And the playlist of thoughts set on repeat,
And the backstage of tragedy forever.
Leaving behind the casino of grand expectations,
And the tarot cards of hindsight,
And the theater with its biopic of illusions,
And the ignorance for the light.
Up ahead there is a rainbow forming that is as large as the sky,
The cartographers of consciousness steadily sketch,
Wondering where the borders of this magical land lie,
And the gardens of this paradise stretch.
There is a drum here that can play both the silence and the sound,
There is a painting here that is neither figure nor ground.
There is clock here that keeps both time and timelessness,
There is a game here that is both poker and chess.
There is a language here that is all metaphors and no words,
There is a sky here that is all flights and no birds.
There is a lamp here that has no fuel, but never runs out of light,
There is a pair of eyes here that’s always closed but full of sight.
There is an instrument here that is all music and no strings.
There is a man here drinking from a cup, into which the moon has melted into bliss.
There is a man here traveling in this train,
Who says when you ask him his name –
‘I am just a dreamer of dreams; I am just a writer of lines,
I am just a sailor of seas; I am just a taster of wines,
I am just a painter of pictures; I am just a bearer of signs,
I am just a prophet of rhymes; I am just a prophet of rhymes….’