I dreamed I was on the Orient Express,
which never stopped to ask why it must roll.
From my seat, I painted the sky indigo,
full of silver comets, silver birches with ghost owls,
hillsides dressed in moonlit gowns of white,
swirls of wind rippling fields of wheat.
A thousand desires rose like smoke from
the villages we slipped by.
I make up so many things from my window,
fool that I am to dream in a plain bed.
I rise in the night, and return to find
that fancy has taken my seat.
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