And where the dreams don’t hide, their’s a field of thought,

Where memorys are like ghosts escaping the thick grey tunnels

Of a cemetery for the heart unknowing.

And there, puerile idealisms or philosophies effloresce

Into... into what? Being the heavyest load in that catechism

Called life, that springtide flow of emotion, of feeling,

A fleeting dream of something better;

But which never comes, from the solumn flows

Into fields of thought, filled with blades of green

To be cut by blades of grey,

In the underpass of a heart, unknowing.