The tears I spilt died.
Now dreams I dreamt blossom,
And forms undreamt live.


Or:

Spilt tears died.
Dreamt dreams bloom,
Living Undreamt lives.

The moon faces the sun
Across a mountain valley.
And the beauty of the one
Reflects off ancient glory

Snowy peaks painted pink
Portray the day’s last honour.
A mountain moon in the dusk,
Looks across to splendour.

Walls flanked by forest
Guard a verdant meadow,
And a river flowing fast,
Wide and cold and shallow.

Idle pratter in a distant place
Empty glasses to hide a face.
A distant home, a distant heart
An exile in a foreign part

To drink I turn, at Khayyam’s behest,
And travel that puts the mind to rest.
A distant grief, a distant pain
In all, I know, there’s naught to gain.

Perhaps I will never learn or die
Perhaps I will never sing or fly
Perhaps when the world is gone
Perhaps I’ll know what’s to be done

Till that day I sit and stay
Die a little more each day
And dream again of what is done
Of dead dreams and wishes gone

Yet they know not of what is past
What is there that shall not last
All that’s done in all our days
Is gone, dead, and never stays