They closed the book of light on the day,
yet a soft, sourceless luminescence lingered
for awhile, before the dark at last had its way.
The couple moved closer together in the night,
whatever had happened before no longer mattered,
whatever was still to come now mattered even less.
When they finally slipped off to sleep, invisible beings
hovered over them: some tried to enter into their dreams
to confuse them, others would counter the intruders
with radiant waves of compassionate regard.
Further away, who knows how far, immense galaxies
revolved in a synchronized ballet, while untold numbers
of sentient beings the sleeping couple could never imagine
appeared and vanished like fireflies on a summer evening.
As two mountain streams might flow into each other
and form a river which courses to the sea, the couple
merged together in their dreaming, beyond the reach
of the hovering phantoms, beyond the stellar shine
of countless worlds, beyond anything with a name
or form — pure consciousness without any object.
Morning came, the day passed, then many days passed,
great and small events happened everywhere, civilizations
rose, thrived for centuries, then invariably collapsed back
to nothing, the same place where the couple still slept,
not knowing, not caring, immersed in perfect bliss.
Somewhere within the silence, a canary broke into song.
There are poets who may have a way with words,
but song birds are made for such singing.
The couple gradually awoke from their dream, dawn
was exuberantly painting the sky, the world was fresh,
the night had fled, and now they were little children again,
eager to play in green gardens of light, before the march
of another night, a night filled with mystery, awe,
and delight, and cascading rivers of dreaming.