In the arms of Morpheus & lidded leaden,
With limbs akimbo & corporeal deadened,
She slipped into the old realms of dreams,
Places where she lost control of schemes.
Dreams were sweet in the nights of Junes,
Those of omens, Angels & the magic of runes,
Of coin-bottomed wells & sweet fairies smiles,
And pretty paths of flowers winding for miles.
Icy mistletoe cut by Druids with golden scythes,
Of sickle moons & old owls with emerald eyes,
Of pretty babes, begotten in the making of merry,
Floral frocks swirling in burgundy & rosy cherry.
Nights of deep winter, dreams of whispering wolves,
And of fire in the red eyes of those wild charging bulls,
Then, in the depths of her dark & restless hot slumber,
She´d hear Thor preaching in his voice of grey thunder.
In dawn´s awakening, she´d stretch & rub her glue eye,
Retracing her journey of dreams & then wondering why,
She was chosen to visit paths of these magic lost places,
While tiptoeing through sleep, leaving no visible traces.