Philosopher's Stone
They do not know that dreaming
is a constant in life
as concrete and outlined
as any other thing,
like this grayish stone
where I sit to rest,
like this calm creek
in its easy startles,
like these high pine trees
that in green and gold sway,
like these birds that crow
in drunkenness of blue.
They do not know that dreaming
is wine, is foam, is yeast,
a joyous thirsty little animal
whose sharp snout
pokes through everywhere
in endless restlessness.
They do not know that dreaming
is canvas, is colour, is paintbrush,
base, pole, shaft,
ogive arc, stained glass window,
a cathedral vault,
counterpoint, symphony,
Greek mask, magic,
that it is the alchemist's retort,
distant lands chart,
wind rose, infant,
sixteenth century vessel,
that it is Cape of Good Hope,
gold, cinnamon, ivory,
a swordsman’s foil,
it is backstage, is dance step,
Colombina and Arlequim,
huge flappy flying bird,
lightning-rod, locomotive,
a glorious prow boat,
furnace, energy generator,
split of the atom, radar,
ultrasound, television,
a rocket landing
on the surface of the moon.
They do not know, nor dream of,
that dreaming commands life.
That whenever a man dreams
the world leaps forth
like a colourful ball
into a child’s little hands.
                                    Antonio Gedeão

"(...) whenever a man dreams the world leaps forth like a colourful ball into a child’s little hands."

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