Made not of salt, nor streaked with bleek,
instead I find them soft and sweet.
Bred from dreams with fevered heat
and of a heart that knows no grief.
Warm and wet, not the twin you know;
murky, nonetheless, but pure as snow.
Tears made that of a lover's milk
brim my eyes and nourishes me still,
only for me to wake with them damp on my cheek
to remind me once more why I bother to dream.
