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.
Exploring further
I followed steps down to a mysterious corner
Where a mysterious door,
Dust-covered, unused,
Nearly rusted shut,
Beckoned to be opened.
“Another door!”
thought I.
“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
I found
His severed head