How many dreams will I have. Night after night. In the same bed, pretending it’s me. In another house, a stranger’s land. Cold sheets, stars hidden by a ceiling. There is nothing but the sound of me. A rage of trees blown by ancient winds. Inside the room made of boxes I pray, then forget the words that lead out. Out of this dream, time has passed. There is a storm that shakes this valley. There is a curse that falls as needed rain. There is a sky of pink with silver clouds. I’ve only dreamed I could get inside. Where I could live with myself like I was the angel star. But here I am, imagining again that my words might lead me out of this sleep. That a new dream might pull God into the light. Awaken, she is filled with bones. The glow of immortal skin, what I look for in his eyes. The doorway into another deep dream. Communion, the star is in the other. The stillness when I know I’ve been sleeping, the eery solace in our gray embrace. White dream, I see the light enter me. This long hallway where we move up and down, grasping at images that might help us feel, ourselves inside this dark heavy dream of earth power. As I lay, I embody another landscape in someone else’s house, he touches me like he’s been here before. In the secret garden of my passing love. The way flowers cannot stay, but another will come. A new color, a different dream. She smells different but equally as beautiful. And that hurts me, that I am not the only flower in my dream. That I am not his only dream. That I myself am a dream. That this is not my bed or body. That I don’t have a house with a glass ceiling. That my star is still unnamed. But I love her, wherever she is. I go. Into this deathless space of an unreachable yearning I echo my own tears, back at the treacherous rain. Back into his burning heart. Back into the eyes we all have together. Can I show you my face. I cannot. It is in a secret garden, in my sleep, I have nothing else. I have nowhere else to hold my soul as precious, more precious than any other beautiful body. I must be the only one hurting while the flowers grow. This is where the name Moonflower comes from. Not every heart needs sunlight to grow. My love grows under moons, many pain filled nights of moon. I found myself under sheets of searching wind, roaming everywhere looking for you in the dark. Knowing only I would be there. Knowing I could never truly be without you. And in this darkness something bloomed. A torrent of invisible love blossomed just so I could survive, go on turning myself around the other light that only knew me as it’s shadow. I can know this pain of not ever being real to you and I can dream you anyway inside my heart, into my flower. Because my words are simple, is because I have none left.
Moonflower, for you my dream, I cry. Sharada Devi