Lament of a Dreamer

Is there such a thing as a dreamer?
A romantic, a quaint little relic,
left alone by the world, a spirited hermit?
Without cares for the bread
and without worries of the tea.
Who lives on a southern mountain,
in a little cottage and writes poems sitting under a tree.

Is there such a thing as a dreamer?
One who is not ridiculed nor mocked,
who lives without a care for time or its clocks?
Without frailties and temptations,
floating in a peace that’s all his own.
Who stands on the borders of night
and casts his light on a weathered stone.

I searched and I sought.
I cried and I fought.
For under these skies blue,
there exist men many few –
who need dreams to survive and to create,
who want to learn of things that don’t breed hate.
There exist indeed,
men as such very few.

And thus is the crying lament,
of a vagabond who’s tiring his shoes.
For the roads are many,
but his pen has gone askew.