Here I pick up remnants of idols
that I have since torn to shreds,
golden scraps to encase my own self in
I am wrapping myself for burial
but to them I am immortal, a statue…
and here on this once young face
I seal, a golden carapace
bury the lock deep inside the key
for there is naught left of me.
A hero’s task for a hero’s ruin
into pieces, an idol to be hewn
and what am I but another lie
to push along the Dreamer’s eye?
They called me Dreamer, I, now awaken
and — can it be? — all forsaken.
For my heroes it turns out were mere men.
Knowing this, how does one dream again?
I who was not content with mere humanity
How can I then be content with me?
So I’ll put on this guise (of a god)
wear this lie for as long as I’ve got.
“This is Dreamer” they will say of me
and the young ones will believe it readily.
Their wings of naïveté will lift
them high enough to receive childhood’s gift —
I will hand them packages of dreams,
stitch enough lies to stay the ripping seams,
and some day I will ask them when they too are men,
how does one learn to dream again?
When heroes prove to be mere men,
how can one hope to dream again?