When dreams mature, they cease to be dreams.
When streams dry up they cease to be streams.
One dream I had, I thought would bear fruits
Let my stream flow into its conduits
Without dam built but quickly emptied
To leaving my dream in stream buried.
But how wonderful dreams do not die
Like a hungry poor deprived of pie!
And buried ’live won’t be dreams that live
To be killed only by disbelief
We need kill to give the figment life
Leaving every tongue to say hi-five!
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