No sound.

They just dreamed

of a far land

with people

apparelled in light silky cloth

with a marvelous tongue:

a combination of soft letters

a wine of long syllables

one can drink

in a crystal cup.

They dreamed of a far land

where dreams

are suspended like clouds in the sky;

sometimes they are wild geese,

white wings

flying lightly,

and sometimes

a profile of a familiar face

turning with dignity.

Light

in that land

is the long finger of a sculptor

who discovers nature

by his gentle touch

and flowers

are abundant regular crystals

and one should keep his hands off their petals.

People of that land

told

the story of their immortal prince

forever sad,

weeping away her spirit

to keep the soil

fruitful forever.

No sound.

The dreamers just dreamed

of a far land

and when they woke up

the first snow

had already covered the gardens.