CANTO DEL ALMA PERDIDO

We are sleepwalkers,
deeply dreaming
a world of blues, golds, purples.
Lovers whirl overhead
like a Chagall mural.
We try reaching for them;
but they are always
just beyond our grasp.
Afraid of waking;
we cling to these slivers of time.
Our hunger,
and our self-deception
is immense.

Mostly,
we are dutiful.
We live under the bright sun
of obligation,
in a parched landscape
of good deeds.
We persevere.
We were bred for that;
waiting always for the night,
when life begins.