Last night I had a dream:
I lived in an old house
On a graceful old hill
Overlooking a graceful old city.
My friend and I raced
Through all the rooms
Opening up doors and windows
To let in as much light as we could.
At the top of this house was a door
That led to the roof
Where we could sit and drink coffee,
Where we could watch the sun set
From the graceful old hill
Overlooking the graceful old city.
I followed steps down to a mysterious corner
Where a mysterious door,
Nearly rusted shut,
Beckoned to be opened.
“Perhaps there is more light behind it.”
I opened the mysterious door
To a great old dusty space
Which – better and better! —
Opened onto a dusty tiled terrace.
There was more light
Here in this mysterious hidden room.
And, o! when I took a broom
To sweep away the dust
From this long-forgotten room
His severed head