November 12, 2010

Of Remembering

Is it a new country
In another world of reality
Than Day's?
Or did I live there
Before Day was?
I awoke
To an ordinary morning with gray light
Reflected from the street,
But still remembered
The dark-blue night
Above the tree line,
The open moor in the moonlight,
The crest in the shadow.
Remembered other dreams
Of the same mountain country:     
Twice I stood on its summits,
I stayed by its remotest lake,
And followed the river
Towards its source.
The seasons have changed
And the light
And the weather
And the hour.
But it is the same land.
And I begin to know the map
And to get my bearings.    
by Dag Hammarskjold

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