The Forgetful People

Be still, be still, Folk of the Hill, 
And cry not through our dreams,
For years have had of us their will, 
And only firelight streams 
Upon our hands that are empty, 
And we forget our dreams. 

Shade, sun, and wind to you are kind,
But we have chosen the fire 
To flicker and fade in eyes half blind,
And no more dear desire 
There is in our souls grown shrivelled 
That sleep beside the fire. 

We fain would keep an endless sleep,
For naught is left to dream;
We would not hear you when you weep 
Though sweet your voices seem. 
We are more sad than dreams are 
Forgetting how to dream.