I remember my old desire
The dream I imagined
Still a girl full of stories
Of the Third Universe to the Left:
A gift confined to a dark corner
In an effort to satisfy
Other people's demands.
But this bright realm behind my eyes
Would not have it so.
It began as a song of joy
And though it was corrupted
It matured into its purpose
At long last it prevailed unto its goal.

I admit to the reason
Of my lust for the jungle:
My visions of the Divine
Wrestled the fear and mistrust
Of all mysteries and unknowns
That my elders imprinted in my soul;
Coalesced into admiration
And desire to possess
The awesome beauty, power and strength.

My vivid dreams at night
Seemed more real than
My actions in the waking time.
My burning thirst for freedom
Choked me into imprisonment.
While reaching for the Sun
His flame scorched my wings.
I remained hopelessly grounded
Though I invoked the wind.
Seeking strength I found weakness.
Begging for comfort I knew despair.
I swallowed my song and muted my voice.
The more my demiurge beckoned
The more I restrained it
Until the containment chamber collapsed
Under the irresistible heat and pressure of reality
Which is nothing like the dream
Yet so much more.
The jungle and our civilized societies
May look nothing alike to our clouded eyes
But they are strands of the same overarching tapestry.

I dreamt I would give flesh and blood to my dream
I dreamt I would create it in reality
I dreamt I would join
Other human beings:
Friends to share adventures
A lover to endure both grief and bliss
A sister like I never had
A child as I would indeed have
Come the right time.

Playing with life is not like playing with tools.
Even tools imbued with soul are unlike life.
Art and science cannot reproduce the miracle
For none can start from scratch.
We all come from what was before.
We all follow the footsteps of others
And of our selves from another time.

From achieving what I coveted
To losing my greatest treasure
From discovering the subtle
Yet apalling difference
Between a path taken and a path imagined
My self became the road
Trod upon by true hearts
As well as by those who merely
Draped a veil of kindness
Atop the gloating smirk of falsehood.

I still remember the dream
Fuel for my engine.
It remains the source
Of my yearning to return.
But I know that when I arrive
The places I revisit
Will have changed.

I still feel the old fear and fascination.
Though I have learned to embrace
The new faces of old things
To let the dead go in peace
(Or at least without bitter enmity)
I still desire fulfillment
Of my sweet dream.

I now understand it can only
proceed from my self:
The true goal is located within.
Thus now I birth what I once repressed
Singing the verses I once silenced
Depicting the images once condemned to oblivion.
I love as I would be loved.
I serve instead of seeking to possess.
I cheat the irony of its glory
By becoming the irony myself.

Some call this growing up
I call it growing wild.
Who knows what it shall bring?
Who knows whose face, behind which mask?
Only one thing is certain:
This dream shall never rest
Until it has been born
In each and every incarnation
Countless as the stars, sand grains and molecules
Endless as the younger dreams it itself spawned
In only seconds
Of fertile insomnia

Dream Child
by Cindy Aixmar Salgado