When night falls, new funny shapes are jumping out.
Many little eyes, like faint tongues of flame, are getting closer
and in the magic of the night, voices are whispering new words.
By now, their language seems to be lost in time,
but I still have a hazy memory of their own voice's sound.
Once I shyly tried to catch their faces
through the moon's melancholy beams;
those little creatures whom
have lost everything throughout time.
Last night they showed me a way I never noticed before.
It's a path hidden among the trees
parallel to the way I'm passing through every morn.
It looks nobody knows such a road.
Hence, as soon as they set off,
I realized that I would have finally made myself
acquainted with their secrets buried into time.
The more I was getting far from the things I already knew
the more I was feeling my senses' warmth reborn,
and contamination clearly died down,
making room for a nearer and firmer pureness.
A disarming scenery had been appearing now in front of my eyes,
filling my heart with tears and nostalgia.
That moment I started guessing
that even human beings might have born there,
but nobody either knows or remember what I'm talking about.
Anyway, since that night I know
looking for the land of God it makes no sense, by now
and down there, in this unreal city, echoes of homesickness come back.
So, now, loneliness covers every face with crying,
but these lost heroes are lying down on their memories...
sometime are chained like only wonderful dreams can be.
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by Dickinson