Alas!

Often, half-awake,
drifting into a dream-like state,
a host of words
twirl in on lyrics
from another land,
and prance about the stage
that waking thought has laid bare
while departing with langour.

The words are clear -
a dazzle of brilliant blue,
the voice of many muses,
free, unwatched,
in perfect abandon.
Hush! Listen.
Write it down.
But the dreamer-sleeper
basks in the idyll
and entrusts the vision
to an opiate mind.

The day dawns bright
a blank sheet of white paper.
Surely...
there was a waltz last night,
a royal ball so bright..?
The strains of music drift in and out.
Where are the words?
When did they go?
An hour more..
and you can be sure
the memory has vanished
(forever it seems.
The muses sing in
another man's dream.

(c) Anita Vasudeva, March 2005