Where The Dreams Were Growing Wild

but something else had changed irrevocably

Time builds itself painlessly around them

at times something happens and I stop dreaming

a fleeting glimpse struck a haunting chord

it turned to the past or to the future

the fog has lifted

This morning I awoke

nobody else would ever learn the secret

Where The Dreams Were Growing Wild

Perhaps this has all occurred before, albeit in a different location, with a different set of participants, at a different time. A newspaper photo. A shot from a film burnt into memory. A strange kind of recognition, not unlike the memory of a man being shot on the pier at Orly.