I can see it all now, as if it came to me through a dream.

There were hills, great hills more like mountains than anything,

Stretching up into the clouds, pinnacles haloed in silver,

The grass beneath their feet of emerald green as living gems.

Forestry swathed the lands in great masses of mighty wood,

Limbs fluttering in the ever-changing winds that rustled by.

Perhaps it is the fool's errand to even dream so, to fantasize.

I can see it, though, and my eyes are wide open, open in wonder.

Glorious billowing clouds stretch overhead wreathing stars

So close, yet so far away that one would always wish to touch

Leaving merely a glimpse, a fleeting glimpse at true magic.

I think that I have seen the magic. They call me liar. Dreamer.

Liar? Dreamer? When did such opposites become one in the same?

One may lie because he dreams of bigger things, this is true,

And perhaps a dreamer may become a liar in order to fulfill hopes,

But never before was a sin something completely heavenly holy.

A dream is something that can never be lost. It can be misplaced.

Dreams are often found again. They are very hard to get rid of.

Courage is what it takes to be a dreamer, to take nothingness

And take one's imagination, and craft something new.

Something divinely beautiful. They still may call me liar and dreamer.

Well, at least I know who I am. I am the Seer, the one who makes

And puts things out instead of absorbing everything, being the sun

That the moon follows across the sky, for all eternity, unceasing.

I know that I am the Dreamer.