the lonely pilgrim fell asleep on his pillow of dreams,
as minstrel sung songs that floated on air.
he struggled to wake from his trance like state,
as he found himself deep in the quagmire of regret,
wondering how he had found himself wandering
in green valleys, how he had been so easily lulled to sleep.

he wondered, too, if dreams are ever real, and what he
would see at morning's light.

minstrel sang on, into the night, singing all good things
into his heart, breathing love into his pillow, playing for
light, playing the tune of her heart strings that night.

she was not sure what song she sang anymore, but
wanted to sing, and sing some more.