He knew he was asleep and was dreaming
Of a beautiful poem. It seemed to be singing
Itself in the night, and he woke
In a bed in a room in an old hotel
And lay there, hearing the song go on
Though he could see the shape
Of his empty shirt on the straight chair
And his empty shoes on the patch of carpet
Made light, half by the moon
And half by the gray beginning
Of dawn. He could see the silhouette
Of his own hand against the window shade
Like a flower, open and waiting. He smiled
At the foolishness of loving his own poem
In his own dream, of accepting praise
From his own shadow. But his mind’s eye
Kept seeing that poem and his real ear
Kept hearing that same song.

From David Wagoner, The Good Night and Good Morning of Federico Garcia Lorca