The Spell

Perhaps this place is a spell
and I am falling asleep
every day on the hill (in Tir na nOg)
the trees are identical
and the clouds sail

no-one comes and
when I lift my gaze
I see the same place
perhaps I fall asleep here
relax enough eventually
no longer to care

perhaps, here, by the river water
the endless pools
nothing matters anymore
and what I do
and where I go

are movements in a dream
I no longer have to
live the nightmare

I am in never-never land
the land of the Fay
where Rumepstiltskin
lives
where every day
is always today
and tomorrow is no guessing it

the point is one
as all the balls
swing round the sun
this is faery-land
and I have lost my
name
now there is no game

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