Show me the man who dreams his faerie tale,
who gives it breath and depth, who sings it in,
and who can animate these without fail;
who robes the mind and gives the bones their skin.
Give me the chance to ask him how he lives
amidst the mortal memories of loss,
and what about his love of living gives
his mind resolve that death cannot accost.
And let me tell him, then, that when he dreams,
a thousand others pale against its light,
because, when everything is at it seems,
we use his champions to slay our blight.
Without a mind as his to give us wings,
we might forever pray for simple things.