To be touched by a dream. . .that is a black mirror image of white. Like a photograph and its negative. . .beautiful, gentle, in need of a teacher. . .
But you have to run away. Fast and far away. And you have to bury the memory. For it is the negative, not the photograph that touched you.
Or is it?
Have to wait. To touch the sky back, when the sky touches you, and surrender.