A week in hours is nothing more than seven sets of twenty four.
But not to normal rules does time consent, a week depends on with whom it’s spent.
When it’s with you it runs so fast, longer though I wish it would last.
Now like time so quick, away you’ve flown. Last week and weeks ahead are mine alone.
Where once time ran swiftly away, now each day’s a week, each hour’s a day.
flying from a land once thought so strange
below me a dream left behind
above me the clouds in which I shall stir
soon I will open my eyes
soon I will emerge into myself once more
this dream is fading fast
for now at least it still seams pure
someday I will sleep again
someday I will visit this land anew
my future is uncertain
but my dreams are mine and mine alone to shape.