I dream not of
winter´s icy icicles, nor of cold & empty halls,
I dream of old
gold lemon groves, bougainvillea & ochre walls,
A place where the
soft cool shadows make love to cobbled stones,
Where guitars are
strummed & the sleepy bee hums dips & drones.
I dream not of sad
grey, nor of the iced drab, hard & cruelly harsh,
But of the
turquoise dragonflies, that play down by emerald marsh,
I dream of midday heat,
where soft silence sits still & warmly blisters,
And promises in pebbles
beckon, where the shore wet, in gold glisters.
I dream not of glaring
hum-drum noise, nor of any sorry & banal ado,
I dream only of the
echoing waves, white clouds & skies of cyan blue,
Where soft whispering
of old carob trees, give shade to market stalls,
My haven shall be that
place, where I dream of golden ochre walls.
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