All Dreams Are Counted Here.

These girls don't even know their names
Nor of the world in which they play,
All in secret gardens grow,
A fairy mound and woods of snow.
So crept a single infant tear,
Into the looking glass so clear,
In ripples which were counted there,
Thousands in their moment there.
All dreams of blood and crying then,
Became the dreams of dying when,
All became so clear,
All dreams are counted here.

poem by David Lacey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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