Night—in the narrow darkness of my garret, I dream that I am dead: The ages close and open, And stagnant breezes mock my life; And yellow sands are shifting slowly, And shallow women laugh. A sour-faced saint is singing The anthems of an ancient faith; And far away, at sea, White sails are glimmering in the moonlight, And drunken men play dice on board Of galleons slowly sinking ... The ages close and open, The saint, the ships are gone— And lonely wolves are roaming Over a dreary desert land, And someone blows a trumpet, And I awaken from my dream. Dawn—and through the window of my garret, I watch a crimson circle rise, And ask myself in silence: Is this the dream, and was I awake before— Or has a dream just vanished with the dawn? |