In a room filled with strange poetry, relics, old books and art,
The winds of change come creeping,
While she is quietly sleeping.
Dangerous winds of doctrines, which set her dreams apart from self...
There is no sound but that of a ticking clock,
And the white bird that rest,
With it's head against her breast,
Laying off the tick and the tock,
With it's beak,
And nothing else...
It pauses in its clicking,
Mockery of the ticking,
To lay it's tongue against her cheek,
And to taste the little stream,
Of her silent tears,
But pauses when it hears,
The whisper of her dream...