You know, a person owns this room
despite the cobwebs and the dust;
Unwillingly, I must admit
she doesn't like to clean that much.
But she loves her pretty things,
her baubles and her figurines,
a hawk with somewhat regal eyes,
a dragon with twice-broken wings.
The fairies that adorn her walls;
The sunbeams and the porcelain dolls,
the books half-scattered cross her floor,
of love half-won and kings half-poor.
This is the room of someone's soul,
whose feet may not quite touch the ground --
But whose mind is ever wandering,
and needs not touch, nor taste, nor sound.
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