As it happened with many of my poems, short stories, novels, songs, screenplays, etc, this one has also been widespread on the internet credited to someone already dead when I was born.

   I've been creating poems (and other stuff) since childhood, when I thought they were made to be declaimed, not written. But I wrote this one in my adult life, and, due to the ambiguity of the sound of 'Jacynth Song' in Portuguese language, though not enough to give up on this dreamly mysterious verse, which wasn't the first mention to this intriguing term, I signed it under the sugestive name of  E. E. Cummings, soon creating another good poem under the same name.

    Like in 'Eternal Shine of a Spotless Mind', I kept referring my own work even when I forgot about it, thus later I've created an illustration based on this very same poem.

You Are Tired (I think), And So Am I

You are tired,

(I think)

And so am I

Of the always puzzle of living and doing.

You have played,

(I think)

And broke the toys you were fondest of,

And are a little tired now;

Tired of things that break, and —

Just tired.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,

And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart —

Open to me!

For I will show you the places Nobody knows,

And, if you like,

The perfect places of Sleep.

Come with me, then,

And we’ll leave it far and far away —

(Only you and I, understand!)

I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,

That floats forever and a day;

I’ll sing you the jacinth song

Of the probable stars;

I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,

Until I find the Only Flower,

Which shall keep (I think) your little heart

While the moon comes out of the sea.

Karen Stärke