Under The Pillow
written by: Strahinja Lukićev
A bark is woven from the wreath of dreams,
The smallest oak and the tallest pine.
From the wreath that sleeps like a cold snake,
Which comes at night, by the feet to fall asleep.
The wreath of dreams also wove hair,
They drag a loner who strives for darkness.
That wreath also shed rivers of blood,
Beneath the bare mountain where no one has yet drunk.
Many herds flee from the wreath of dreams,
Many are afraid, wolves want to snarl.
In the wreath of dreams, there is the dust of life,
And the dead tree breathed.
In that wreath of dreams, there are also a handful of fairies,
Some are like ravens, while others are like silk.
In the wreath of dreams when the Sun beats the dew,
Even the smallest pebble stops hiding.
The night is woven from a wreath of dreams,
Peace and restlessness when we don’t have that power.
The power to climb to the roof,
Even to the highest pine,
Where the bark shines.
The power to soar above the thin roof,
Let’s see where the secret lies in the dense wreath of dreams.
But the secret of a thick wreath is not there for the blind,
It is there to make the palate tingle in dreams.
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