We have gone around the table, 
Every scholar read his pages, 
And now I pull aside the blinds, 
And look down on the street for the analysis of the dream. 
Up Market street and right at Third the labyrinth turns, 
And no one knows in what dark cave the secret hides. 

In night images against the wall that children see 
Are horrors never seen by day. 
After-images in red and green 
Seem to dance against the screen. 
And who can say if they were real 
Or even that they went away! 

Some say because of snakes around a branch, 
And that because the first man failed 
There are snakes in all our dreams, 
The snake that slips beneath the door 
And in the dark we know he's there. 
 
When Pharaoh Egypt wrote his life 
In pictures on the wall, 
And men who plowed the earth with sticks 
Felt chilly in the Nile sun 
When certain thoughts came with the wind, 
There was a Joseph. 

And on your pages what was written? 
"For centuries the men of earth were smitten 
With a misconceived idea of deity. 
As we see now, it cannot be. 
How limited to call account the theft of every man, 
To paint a counterpoint of right and wrong." 

"Was there any evidence-of answers'" 
"Clever," someone says. 

There are dead flies on the window sill, 
And one who butters against the pane, 
Who throws himself, then pauses stunned, 
And throws himself again. 

   He does not believe in glass. 

   He has such great round eyes! 
   Then who can be thought wise? 

   We are the dust of the earth, 
   That lay a thousand years unwatered, 
   Now driven before the arid wind. 

   In the afternoon, before the sun, 
   The dust must settle upon new rocks and fences. 

   Every man has met his fear, 
   And, some nights, we all are children 
   And desire our silent crying to be heard. 

   Then who have we in chains 
   To read the vision? 
   And who among us have we bound 
   Who can come forth 
   And understand the dream!