I dreamed there was a poet
A man who loved words and rivers
I dreamed him--no one on this earth,
On this hard, heavy earth,
Writes like that, smiles like that
Brings joy and tears like that
I dreamed he carried a thousand scrolls
Piled in his arms up to his brain
And he began to give them to us
But after a precious few scrolls were unrolled
A trumpet called, and he turned away,
And the remaining scrolls became a rifle
Thunder roared, drums pounded
me awake, and he was gone.