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Phi
December 26th, 2005, 10:12 AM
I dreamed of a child that I could not see
But the back of her head as she guided me,
Or I guided her, gentle hand on her head,
As I comforted her from her fear and dread.

Her hair it was black and not too long
Straight and smooth, healthy and strong,
We walked ahead through a mist unclear.
Oh I loved her so, and I kept her near.

Now in my waking world my child’s hair is red
Very fine and straight- not a curl on her head,
Though she waves it some and it waves some free…
The dark-haired child can’t belong to me.

But deep in my dream she’s my own grandchild
With my hand on her head and her trust so mild
And clear and complete as we walk through the mist.
That dark hair was hair I had brushed and kissed!

So who, tell me who, is the dark haired one
That calls me in dreams to lead her on?
To a child of my dream-soul, a child of my heart,
What help can I give, what sort of dream-art

Would soothe and comfort a dark-haired one
That I know from the mist, but not in the sun?
What troubles this child, what help can be given
To the child of the dream and not of the living

In the world that I know in the bright light of day,
That I guide through the mist as she leads the way?
Oh, it may be enough that I touch her head,
As she moves through the mist, as she dreams in her bed,

In a night that is scary and a mist that is deep;
Perhaps my hand comforts some child in her sleep.
And that is enough, and my mind rests still.
Let us all take comfort where comfort will.