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The Sweetest Dream

We are such stuff...
Whan that Aprill...
Winter kept us warm...

A poem in honor of the first seven lines of T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land

When we should sleep, perchance to dream of rest,
We wake up in the middle of the dream,
And, face to face with all our restlessness,

We realize: the more we dream the less
We sleep.  Yet in our deepest sleep we seem
To seek the sweetest dream: forgetfulness.

To let the mountain memories of yes-
terday, the pushing pulling of the stream,
The ocean of tomorrow's wantonness

Be all forgotten: sleep without the stress
Of time and place or meaningfulness, dream
Beyond the test of schedule or address,

Past all interpretations, dream the dream
Of peace and find the stream that lets you rest.

     The sweetest dreams we don't remember.
     In deepest winter we sleep the best.

A winter sleep is warm and long and safe inside. 
The doors are shut, the blinds are drawn
and we are undercover and immortal, but

     The sweetest dreams we don't remember.
     In deepest winter we sleep the best.

The sweetest dreams are moments of their own
reality, unshaped by all that they are running from,
untroubled by the great escape.

     The sweetest dreams we don't remember.
     In deepest winter we sleep the best.

But winter turns to spring, tomorrow misremembers
yesterday, the morning breaks with business,
and all the sweetness melts away.

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