In an unknown dream I dwell—
Father, Son and Spirit bright,
is three not more than one should tell?
Again I yield—perhaps it’s right,
another gift from God to fight.
My friend, amid the burning flame,
the foes grow cruel with thirst for power;
in dreams unclaimed I drift the same,
and pay my debt to time each hour.
Confusion clouds, my eyes grow sore,
with worry I escort the day;
by eight, the stars begin to soar,
and I’m content—the moon makes way.
I wait my hour, love will warm,
the soul’s own light will fill the room;
I’ll claim the gold that can’t be worn,
and drink her lips like sweetest wine—consumed.