The Voice of Our Dream

Amid the streams of your hair
fold this poem like a flower
and leave it there to steep,
soak into their roots.
When the wind blows
combing your hair like breezes
dancing amid the trees
its fragrance will flow
filling the atmosphere,
echoing in sighs
endless and serene,
dewdrops raining
to lace the wild earth,
winedrops pouring
from the goblet of dawn,
rippling through the sky
the voice of our dream.

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