God, teach me the language of sleep.

 All people are children when they sleep

 there's no war in them then.

 They open their hands and breathe

 in that quiet rhythm heaven has given them.

 They pucker their lips like small children

and open their hands halfway,

soldiers and statesmen, servants and masters.

The stars stand guard and a haze veils the sky,

a few hours when nobody will do anybody harm.

If only we could speak to one another then

when our hearts are half-open flowers.

Words like golden bees

would drift in   ----

God, teach me the language of sleep.

ROLF JACOBSON  -  1907 - 1994