Oh Sleep, thou son of Death,
who a thousand years ago unseen,
your father kissed and home left
with nothing but your dreams.
Who whispers to me in the dim,
poems of Love – from your shore –
which you’ve told to lovers and madmen
who have lived and died before.
Bring me to your father’s home,
to the land of songs never dreamed,
where words no lover has known,
sit locked in rhymes no man has seen.
For each day holds naught for me,
Save for dreams, and the thoughts thereof.
And I would give a life of sleep,
For an eternity of Love.
