A fragrant minstrelsy

The starlight pierced the soundless sky
before the sun laid down its head,
beyond the hillocks burning red
with bands of small birds passing by.

A fragrant minstrelsy was hung
on winds blown from a distant land
where turquoise waves sift diamond sand,
where all is fair and ever-young.

Where apple-blossoms in the sun
are stirred by every gentle breeze,
by music in the blooming trees,
by ancient arias just begun.

And with the sun now gone to sleep
and dreaming of another day,
the world in shadow fades away
as stars their quiet vigils keep.

The little wind-up girl

The little wind-up girl with a broken spring
sits looking down upon everything
from her shantytown-shelf of shadow and dust,
dreaming her wistful dreams of rust.

She smiles quite sweetly as she dreams,
but she always smiles, or so it seems.
She rattles inside when she is shaken,
but none shake now; she is quite forsaken.

The decay of time her face defiles,
and still she smiles and smiles and smiles.