They write about midnight ocean waves,
broken moonlight across every ripple.
Something so beautiful needs to be seen,
to be understood.
They speak of a musical wind.
It sings a song trees dance to.
Such a melody must be felt,
to be enjoyed.
They sing of exotic places,
white sands, ruins, foreign lands.
Such places must be experienced,
to be believed.
I dream of that they sing of.
I feel that which they speak of.
I live in what they write of.
Their imagination,
is my reality.
