19 December 2012
I can often sing myself to sleep. Or sometimes I can count those sheep, jumping over that wall. One. Two. And three.
And sometimes I can close my eyes and imagine I am a bird flying high above an endless wood, looking down;
Here are the canopies of trees, and here; the branches, the trunks, and the leaves. Here is a clearing, and a stream reflecting winter light. Here is a small lake as clear as the star and moon night.
If I circle above and close my bird eyes, I can see sometimes a blue-eyed fish, sometimes a girl in a chameleon dress with chameleon eyes.
And sometimes I see myself singing myself to sleep.
And I can hear a song on the cold winter breeze...
Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya Oh Lord, kumbaya.
And when sleep comes, and the dreams begin, and Time slows, and twists, and turns like a leaf blown in a winters wind, here are some memories I see written on silver birch bark, paper thin;
Hope. Imagination. Love. Life.
And I can see a hill. And I can see a wood. And I can see a man sleeping as still as a man should.
And I cry, in revolutions.
And I Cry, In Revolutions • Opuss № I