sky | Kreworld

I painted the water
I wrote the fire
I read the earth
I danced the wind
and I sang the sky
and in the sky, I walk in bad luck,
wash my right shoe in water from cloud
I take it off to clean it better
and drop it in the cloud below me,
with one leg dressed and the other undressed
out of shame I hide in my hat, it becomes magic,
and now on the roads of fantasy pass stories with fairies and dragons,
fairies with two souls
dragons with five heads,
I have wings to fly
I have the strength to lift fifty times the weight of the sky
to be able to regenerate lost parts of the soul,
I see my reflection in the butterfly and the caterpillar smiling, one under the antennae, the other under the moustache
in the grapes, which fill all the nooks and crannies, a few ripe ones also jump out at me
in the orange that peels off its skin
in the table that laughs with splashes of honey
in the half-empty glass that must give what it lacks the most.

The dream is not dead.

The girl’s dream is in a train station
Where the train stops
And people are coming down.

The girl raises her voice to her mother and shouts “I have a dream”
The mother with worries and a tiring job
With various disappointments and empty feelings
She remembers about her, about her dream
She wants to tell her, yes, but she can’t
She just stays silent.

The girl raises her voice to her father and shouts “I have a dream”
Father molded by the necessity
To adapt to the times
To put food on the table, to have money to pay his debts
He wants to tell her, yes, but he can’t
He just says, life is hard, no more dreaming.

The dream is not dead
Not at 10, not at 20
Not at 50, not at 70 years old.

The girl raises her voice to life and shouts “I have a dream”
The years go by, the girl becomes a woman
The train station has closed
Surrounded with barbed wire
Broken windows with wooden boards
Thistles like walls
Padlock on the door
The train doesn’t stop
People don’t come down anymore
Only the woman, tries to remember
The lost dream, like a forgotten password.

The dream is not dead
Not at 10, not at 20
Not at 50, not at 70 years old
Not on the deathbed.

The woman raises her voice to the sky and shouts “I have a dream”
She triggers the alarm signal and gets off the train
She pulls up the thistles with her bare hands
Throws the barbed wire
Breaks the window boards and kicks the padlock off the door
Opens the train station
With her last breath.

The dream is not dead
Not at 10, not at 20
Not at 50, not at 70 years old
Not on the deathbed
Not at the morgue.

Where the body lies.

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The dream is not dead