Eric Whitacre

The Text

Very soon, little lightning, you’ll emerge from your mother,
Very soon you’ll awaken and dream.
So here is your boat,
And here is your oar,
And here is your path to the stream.

Now dream:

Dream of roses, and birthdays, and butterflies,
Dream of winter, and water, and night,
Dream of lullabies, and Hebrew, and Christmas trees,
Dream of angels, and panthers, and light.

Dream of wading out to play among the sea-girls,
Dream of stretching in the waves exchanging foam,
Dream of flying over rooftops as the midnight watchtower tolls,
In a machine that you’ve designed to take you home.

Dream of marriage full of laughter and compassion,
Dream of winged children soaring as they leap,
Dream of tasting touching hearing seeing breathing, dream of hope,
And dream of love as you surrender unto sleep.

Row gently, little lightning, and emerge from your mother.
Row gently down the stream.

Life is but a dream.

Eric Whitacre, b.1970