In a room filled with strange poetry, relics, old books and art,
The winds of change come seeping,
Through her while she is 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 ticking and the tock,
With it's beak,
And nothing else.
It pauses in it's clicking,
Mockery of the ticking,
To lay it's tongue against her cheek,
And to taste the steady stream,
Of her silent tears,
Again pauses when it hears,
The whisper of her dream,
Like distant wind chimes...