I am a dreamer,
Dreaming beyond reality,
Beyond truth, beyond lies,
Beyond what I can realise.

Yet on sweet summer days
As I walk on lonely forest ways,
I wrote letters, I told my dreams
To my sweetheart as I sat by golden mountain streams.

And with my messages pigeons flew,
Beyond hills and beyond rivers,
To the hands of my lover so true,
To those quivering hands, to those anticipating eyes.

And then my mother sent me a letter,
Asking me how was I doing,
When I took it from the postman’s hands,
I saw a little boy in me, crying.

So many things to say
But so few words to say it with,
Love, passion, hope and despair,
And all of the emotions in between.

I called my uncle on a telephone,
Hardly able to hear his voice,
How are you, he asked me thrice,
And asked me to return his sweater the next time.

My neighbours and my childhood friends,
All wrote letters or telegrams sent,
On their marriages, on my birthdays,
And asking me money they never lent.

I am still a dreamer,
Dreaming beyond reality,
Yet reality seems so dreary,
And seems lost in itself.

It is lost in a selfish trance,
And in days as similar as revolving mirrors,
All dreams are lived in sophisticated interiors,
As rustic simplicity is just a passing window glance.

There are numerable devices,
And different phones with photo displays,
But what’s the use of all of them,
If nobody wants to talk these days.