Right, you shall see leagues of flowers
But carry straight on into the throws
Of the rough sea: A door in the ocean bed.
By now the night will have crept up,
I assume, so take the dim-lit room
As place to rest your uncaged head.
The room is lovely, if quite bare,
But if I were to, forgive me, compare
It to your current dwelling, I would not moan:
This place has a bed after all.
And a small wooden sweet cup
With spiced wine to lift gloom.
Now to traverse the stairs:
There are many, and steep
But with fair night’s sleep
It should not hurt you to fall
A few steps here and there.
Then you find my gate.
It will open with a groan
With an eery glow
And cause those little hairs
To stand on tip-toe.
I shall tell you no more.
What is left is mere fate.