Where Dreams Hang in Silk

  In memory of Voltaire, beneath the gaze of the morning mirror

My favourite, the wardrobe of dreams,
Unfolds in the idle light of dawn—
Where I select the self I’ll wear,
A dream reborn each day anew.

Silken threads from Eastern looms
Drape me in morning’s hush and hue;
A veil so thin, yet mystic still,
Lifts me to realms of the ideal—
Where benevolence reigns, and virtue glows,
Where wisdom flowers, sacred, slow,
And mother-love, serene, profound,
Breathes through the silence all around.

There, flutes and bells and dancers trace
The beauty time cannot erase.
But as I drift from dream’s embrace,
The hush remains—a glowing trace.
The incense curls but does not flee,
Its fading veil now part of me.

I gaze, and in the mirror see
A memory, still warm, of thee.
In glass, we meet—
In glass, I find
The self I shape
In form and mind.
And as I dress in thought and grace,
I hear perfection’s softest pace.

                                           —— A.G