I had a dream late last night,
But I’m not sure that it was mine;
In it, I was a different person,
Living in another time.
Everyone was talking in a foreign tongue,
One, before, I had never heard;
I also talked in that same language,
As if I understood every word.
I was being led up to a Guillotine,
For some deed that I had done;
I caught the eye of a young man in the crowd,
I somehow knew to be my son.
I wouldn’t confess that I was guilty,
Of the crime I was being sentenced for;
Instead I rose to my feet and shouted,
“You can kill me, but there are still so many more.”
A commotion started in the crowd,
Where last I had seen my son,
Men with swords appeared on the platform,
Instructing me to run.
My hands and feet were shackled,
I could only manage tiny steps;
A horse appeared before
And on its back I lept.
The horse galloped me to safety,
Stopping at a clearing in the wood;
It was the camp of my fellow rebels,
Where taking command, my son now stood.
My shackles were removed,
By a blacksmith with his tools,
While we celebrated my daring escape
From the tyrant and his fools.
The cavaliers who had rescued me,
Gradually all returned,
Reporting that the platform and its Guillotine
Had, to the ground, been burned.
I drank whatever they were drinking,
In no time I was inebriated,
I woke up in the present time,
Being myself again, I hated.
I’m not sure whose dream that was,
And why last night it was mine;
Maybe dreams get dreamt again
Over the continuum of time.