The Artist's Room (With the Ghost)
Thurs 09 May 2002, 11:36PM(+9:00GMT)
hidoko Matsumoto

In sound sleep the restless chasm
Was The Path paved with dreams.
It proved prevailed as one swirled
From dawn to dusk to wake in morn.

The Artist was The One
Who woke to the dreaming slumber.
Along he wandered
Amazed and in wonder.

At the end he saw a house,
A House peeling of paint.
A lovely house, no doubt;
To have it he would have fain.

The doorway was disturbingly dark,
Yet entered the House did he.
It was bare as bone, but brighter
than the eyes of an old crone.

Inaudibly a voice began to sing,
Tone sweeter than dew of ice.
It seemed to him to be too soft,
The sound of dew-drop voice.

His heart was burned,
His mind was churned,
Upon hearing this voice
--For it sang sweeter tunes than life.

He felt his heart,
He found the voice.
Now he yearned for the person
Who bestowed such a sensation.

The Ghost appeared in this dream,
A tormenting beautiful being.
It sings and with this voice
Enchants all who dream.

Its eyes were deeper than desperation
And red as red could be.
Gratified the Artist sobbed
And rushed forth in a flurry.

As sweet intoxication swells
Like faint wisps, fermenting wine,
The Artist wrapped his arms around
To find that he was holding air.

How hurt was he! All whom he loved was
A spectre, a mirage, a ghoul!
Why does one believe 
That one could love a dream soul?