Do not think, mother, that the dreams do not go
up in smokes
green blue adolescent smokes
unhindered scattered by the fan under the ceiling
looking down on you
through you
till no more.

Do not think, mother, that the night is opened
to your vulnerable heart
for your vanity, your pride and your unfaltered joy.
They will not stop. No.
Not even the mesh, the screen, the green hillside
will not be able to stop the dreams, effaced,
scarred, dust blessed bygone,
a tip of a finger’s touch will do.

So don’t dare to think, wide hoped,
mother, the dreams…
The dreams do go.