Fabrice Poussin writes

Dreams

They might be little dreams
in their summer dresses
though winter reigns
above the tender realms. 


They come with gentle karmas
floating as if illusions
of a creation yet uncertain
speaking in angelic tongues.


Little of me will remain
but perhaps a pile of golden dust
after they pass through my path
and shock my death into a new birth.


Dancing wondrous pirouettes
hands writing upon far away worlds
carefree in vague silky cloth
they rule the universe in pure innocence. 


A heavenly scent hovers like diamond dust
distant laughter leaves soft waves upon the cosmos
their world is safe as they hold each other
in an embrace safe as eternity. 


We will remain spectators to this godly spectacle
as they are one in as many as an infinite number
if only I could hold my soul out on a platter
and let them know, I too want to join the dream.