A silver orb that does not reflect light,
But glows with all the visions of the dark;
It catches every whisper of the night,
And every flickering and creative spark.
The dreamer tosses on a bed of hay,
And sees a palace built of liquid glass;
While far above, the lunar shadows play,
To record the moments as they slowly pass.
The ink of memory begins to spill,
Across the craters of the silent stone;
A library of every human will,
That every king and beggar’s heart has known.
The morning sun shall wash the sky to blue,
But every dream is kept forever true.
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