Once upon a century,
When the dark ages still weighted on the shoulders of our Mother Earth,
Was a man.
Simple he was, neither a fool nor a scientist,
No more stupid than he was brave,
No beggar and no wealthy.
All grey in this black and white ancient world.
Few were the people who dared to look at him,
For he was as unfathomable as September’s misty dawn,
Deep were his eyes, the blackest one could ever see.
In the streets there were no soul to meet for him.
But he did not care.
His secret was all he was living for.
He used it every night, when the Moon was high
And when all the city quaked sitting by the houses’ hearth,
Hearing the beasts whose kind disappeared long ago.
He waited for children to fall asleep, to gently climb onto their window’s side,
And to fall asleep, his mind plunging into the dreams of his host.
For a Hunter of dreams he was.
Resting calm against the glass,
Feeling the soft and freezing winter’s air,
His fingers brushing a