Does it make a sound,
like a tree falling down,
the rushing of the leaves,
the cracks of its bark hitting the earth
Is it like a scream,
muffled by a feathers’ pillow
in an empty house
full of white sheets
Does it smell like dry flowers
between the pages
of a notebook
never used
Are the dreams
never born
truly gone forever
And if they are,
does anybody know
where they go
Are the dreams that go away
a question mark left hanging in the air