A fanciful-wakeful lass
with a magic star on her palm,
she's climbing up to the sky,
drowning in the rising sun
to fall down, beat the dust
and kiss the day good-bye.
She's drawing a picture of beau monde,
keeping her mind so madly strong;
she's down on her knees,
dropping her heart, so weak;
her sorrow makes her blind to see
through salty tears
that rob her eyes of joy
in the world full of jeers.
Vain are hopes, empty's damnation,-
love is her icon,
so wanted, so untold,
belonging to Heaven,
having fallen to a fragile soul,
to a tiny nook in the huge space,
as a weak ray of light in the dark,
always finding its place.
And the lass, strange to reality, is awake,
awake to her dreams.
A Fanciful-wakeful Lass © Ladanseuse
Written under the title "A Stranger to Reality" in 1999, edited in 2021
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