Life is but a conscious dream

When youth days are to take wing,

the march of our hearts chants quietly,

heat becomes a dormant spring,

vigour embarks on an odyssey,

time turns into a dying ember

and clock ticks plow our tanned skin;

my friend, you ought to remember

life is but a conscious dream.

If you look inside my heart,

all are hopes and dreams in strife.

Which are worthy to be heard?

Which to bury ‘fore I die?

If you look inside my scars,

all my fights and falls align

like constellations of stars

in this human body of mine.

If ever nostalgia glances

out the fogged windows of the past,

it’ll see time burnt down to ashes.

Why’s life a slow-blowing blast?

But in case you ever asked me,

in the days to come I trust,

for they face silent uncertainty

and long for music to last.

My skin’s wrinkled; my soul, tender;

yet my faith, an endless stream,

and my presence still remember

life is but a conscious dream.

The Breath as an Anchor for the Here and Now | Buddhistdoor
Image from Buddhist Door

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