The Demon’s Green Desire

The Demon, lording over the crimson fires,

Is often brooding in gloom over pleasant dreams,

He dreams a wood of green retire,

In his dwelling, a hovel, where daunted is he

The loathèd powers to destroy dreams;

His face the color of rose, and coarse like stone,

Is often crone in his thorny throne-

Of gold too dark to glitter

In his cave where he glooms alone;

If only in his recess a bird who’d sing,

The flush of air, the brushing wind,

A seed that springs a colorful tree,

And creamy sand that welcome the waves in;

Fate has made a droll of he

And has reduced him with barren company,

Only the fires are bowing and its shadows applauding,

As he handles the dreams to leave deviled in the pot

His own dreams born green, to leave to rot

And for The Demon, this happens everyday;

The Demon, lording over the black pot and crimson fires,

Is brooding in gloom over a pleasant dream,

He dreamt of a wood of green retire,

In his dwelling, a hovel, where cursed is he,

The loathèd power to destroy his dreams