An old piece of cloth that had become quite frayed
For years in the dark of a closet had laid.
It served no good purpose, but only collected grime and dust,
As it laid and decayed in the dankness and must.
But then one day amidst its blight it saw an unfamiliar sight,
‘I do believe’ it said with fright, ‘this must be the thing called light.’
Someone indeed had opened the door
And removed the rag from its familiar store.
‘This rag is old and dingy and torn’ said the one who had removed it,
‘I do not think I can clean it up, but perhaps I can renew it.’
The remover had quite a skill for making old things new,
And the old rag had been quite changed by the time that he was through.
The new old rag now hung on the wall in the light as decoration.
But he could not believe a rag like him could experience such transformation.
And sure enough, as he had feared, the darkness came once more.
The dream was over, back to the lightless closet, as it had been before.
But the sun rose next day and he found he was not in the closet at all.
He was still a new rag who lived in the light and hung upon the wall.
‘And can it be’ he said with joy, ‘that the dream is not a dream?
For this great thing called morning comes each day and I am still the new me.’
