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  • By David B. Gosselin

Ancient Dreams

I saw a young bard,

A prince sitting on

An ancient divan,

Plucking the strings

Of his Dorian lyre.

His dainty fingers

Strummed the gentle lyre

Like brush strokes

By some old master

Who moves with his mind.

The sweet-sounding notes

Of his thespian lyre

Mixed with the thoughts

Of ancient empires

— Of antique wars —

The taste of ashes;

The thought of Diane's

Faded, wasted cheeks;

Young Paris in love;

Fair Hamlet in Hell—

Hecuba smiling.

Our most nascent dreams

Are oft’ forgotten;

Some dreams are older

Than we can recall,

Some dreams ever young.

David is a writer, researcher, poet, and translator based in Montreal. He is the founder of The Chained Muse and New Lyre. His poetry collection is entitled Modern Dreams.


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