When It Comes

WHEN IT COMES

It comes to me,
Not from the desert
Of the forgotten dreams,
Nor from the winter
Of the dead memories.

It comes to me
Like a sudden desire
For living free,
With no dreams,
No memories.

It is not a note
From the joyful heart
Of a passing bird,
Nor a momentary vision
Of a childhood love.

And when it comes,
I feel as vast
As the whole Universe,
Yet as light as a bubble
Of happiness.

And when it is gone
I write again.

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