I’ve heard the old men speak of it,
this land that they call sleep;
A place that’s hard to find,
a place where even the homeless find home.
They say that when a man’s bones grow thin,
when he is lost in memory,
The Lord of Sleep comes to him,
and bids him enter his realm.
They tell me it’s a peaceful place,
this land full of dreams,
And that your body grows youthful there
and your eyes are once again keen.
They tell me tales of elders long gone,
Ancients who return once again
on the backs of dreams,
They stay only for the space of a night
— in the morning they are gone–
But they speak of a land far greater than sleep,
a place where every man finds himself,
a home for every wandering soul,
A kingdom ruled by Lord of Sleep’s King,
A land called death.