By Iain Muir
There are many gates to the Dreaming,
As many as there be to Hell.
But which gate it is that a dreamer takes,
One cannot always tell.

Is it a gate of antlered Horn,
Which dreams in fantasy drapes?
Or is it a gate of Ivory,
Through which the truth escapes?

Nine dreams will come through the gates of Horn,
Nine, and then ninety more.
But which is that hundredth, one true dream?
None can say for sure.

Some wait their lives for an Ivory dream,
Which they will never see.
Some mistake them for dreams of Horn,
So they never come to be.

Some deny the truth of dreams.
They live their ‘pragmatic’ lives.
They never question their lack of friends,
The absence of Husbands, or Wives.

I’d rather chase a thousand dreams
That never come to be
Than deny the chance one may be true:
Born of precious Ivory.
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