Dreams deep enough have an infinite echo,
as if the time within them borrows from other lives,
or that the forgotten worlds between one's
waking hours cumulate like layers of sand beaten by the waves.
Then, one night, we die
and decades of dreams stand fit as a castle,
the work of a lifetime.
When it all ends, will I find myself in that castle again?
I had believed death would be one night's peace
stretched to eternity.
But instead each morning I awake
in the wrong room.
The halls here are oval,
unfit for a life.
The smell of language somehow dulled by the salty air.
If there is music here, it has learned to whisper.
Sometimes, I think I am closer,
and as I walk toward the sounds,
the promise of joy, the fragrance of a symphony,
I realize I can only hear
Jerome Ramcharitar is a writer based in Montreal, Quebec. Most of his days are spent teaching English as a second language and occasionally causing more trouble as a poet. A dabbler by nature, he has dipped his fingers into editing, translation, and the dangerous world of card games.