Philosopher's stone

They don't know that dreams
are a constant part of life
as concrete and as real as
any other possible thing,
as this grey stone
on which I sit and rest,
as this calm brook
gently stirring,
as these tall pine trees
waving in green and in gold,
as these birds that cry
intoxicated with blue.

They don't know that dreams
are wine, and foam, they're leaven,
tiny animal, smart and eager,
its pointed muzzle
fussing through
in a perpetual move.

They don't know that dreams
are canvas, and colour, a brush,
base, column, capital,
lancet arch, stained glass,
cathedral pinnacle,
counterpoint, symphony
a Greek mask, and magic
the alchemist's retort,
map of the distant world,
a compass, the Infante
16.th century caravel,
they're Cape of Boa Esperança,
gold, cinnamon, ivory,
swordsman's foil,
theatre wings, dancing step,
Columbine and Harlequin,
the flying passarola,
lightning rod, locomotive,
a ship of festive prow,
blast-furnace, generator,
atom's fusion, radar,
ultrasound, television,
rocket landing
on the surface of the moon.

They neither know, nor dream,
that dreams command life.
That whenever a man dreams
the world bounces, advances,
as if it were a coloured ball
held by the hands of a child