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