The night would fade with morning
and still the dream has lingered
like the small trails of silver thread
left behind by the spider in her web
I have not clouded up the last memory
by lingering through its night.
The cry of the morning insists
I've come to day. Long fine rays
of sunlight pour through sheer curtains
to let the warmth wake me.
Restless not for morning, nor holding close
the night, I've bangueted on dreams
I'm forced to lift the sheets.
