This is not a Dream

This is not a dream.

We often go through
the small iron door,

we often walk around
the garden of treasures.

What we say, you hear.
What you see, we see.

The oak leaves rustling in the wind
and the gleam of the Moon

and the blackberry bush,
the birds and the violets.

Everything’s so nice
in the silent twilight.

For Children of the Night
always remember the Truth,

this is not a dream.

© Frédéric Georges Martin