As far as I can see into the imaginary,
There's a thousand visits to be made and played,
But as I write I know I'm not a visionary,
Only a girl of that place, that imaginary world.
How did I first fall in love with that world so distant?
A place cold, bright, lively and peaceful,
A place where all from the mind of writer is resistant,
Yet I have found an array of the wonderful.
Who knows who I shall meet next?
Whether servant girl, Queen or Countess,
I am sure they shall fit easily into whichever context,
Meek as a lamb or proud as a lioness.
Some say the novel is an allaborate lie,
But I say take a look into the oracle of imagination,
Pause a little, close your eyes, give your mind a try,
You might just discover some new sensation.
Long, short or just a moments glance,
Every story-teller knows the inspiration fire,
The one which holds us in a fantastic trance,
Until the very last day, at which, we die.