The stars roll above me,
Twenty moons to my right.
Hopes of every little girl’s heart
Plunders into this night.

Look there,
Is a princess,
Singing on a chair.
She wears a gown of yellow
And a crown upon her hair.

Below me sits a thousand armies,
My hearing must be impaired.
For all have gained their battle scars,
Yet not a sound they have blared.

I shoot into the cloudless blanket,
Many wonders fade and fall,
But still stands an apple tree,
It’s branches are very tall.

A ribbon drops from its berry;
Such golden, ripened things
Many children now carry
To the silent battle kings.

They do not mind its hardness,
Just its fragrance and sheer joy.
Should one settle for something less,
It would be a child’s toy!

The faded scrap of felt,
Hangs loosely from the tree,
From which the winter melts
And forms puddles of sweet green tea.

Now the children of the skies,
Come and sip it up.
It makes them tell horrid lies,
And scream into a cup.

Suddenly it’s cracking,
The tree begins to wilt,
Sending the children packing
And me beneath my quilt.

The stars above are fading,
Moons slowly jade.
Her majesty’s cascading,
Her chair is not of aid.

The warriors become a struggle,
One of live or die,
The blanket folds around me,
There in my bed I lie.