Then Balaam declaimed his poem again.
The oracle of the man with far seeing eyes.
How doggedly we wish to wipe away the stain.
How wearily we stumble from our lies.

My dream last night was terrifyingly dark.
To survive I had to lose all attaining.
But out of this pain rose hope like a lark.
At dawn a new dream came, losing is and was and will be actually gaining.

I do not know your ways.
I stumble from your path.
I cannot see the sun’s fitful rays.
I fear your wrath.

But so often a new dream comes.
Dimly drawn from receding memory, an echo of hope like distant drums.