It's a thousand bottles,
Trampolining with their buddies in the trash lorry.
It's a thousand orientals,
Cutting their way through the leaden skies
In a rusty tin-opener.
In summer, it's a thousand twinkles,
Surpassed by a thousand rays.
In winter, a thousand worries
Of no more twinkles or rays.
It's a thousand reasons to sleep,
A thousand more to stay awake.
It's a thousand bubbling dreams and thoughts,
Each visible for barely a moment
Then grabbed back into the cauldron.
Then thousands of cauldrons,
Thousands of fires,
Thousands of kitchens,
Thousands of castles,
Thousands of thousands,
Until they outnumber the bubbles
And surreptitiously merge,
Alone in some anonymous void.