Swept through curtains on silken rise.
Just beyond sunsets of gentle cries.
With soft intent and blissful content,
Does it float along, almost in song.
To a place of dreams, hanging wistfully by the seams.
Neither frayed nor flayed does it move past.
In hopeful abandon, almost in tandem, forever last.
And upon a chair sits one so fair, it almost hurts to look.
And kindly she sings, of faraway kings, her notes as soft as a gentle brook.
For she does but long for one mere song, a cry of her love to all.
So in it sweeps, as our queen doth weep, to bring her out of her fall.
Gently it comes, happiness it hums and upon its trail doth it bring,
A scent so sweet, it could make you weep, what is this wonderous thing?
Slowly doth the fair queen stir, her voice caught, almost a purr.
Delicately does she smell, the fairest scent her nose did ever tell.
And in wonder does she exclaim, for all the world does she proclaim,
Oh sweet scent you have torn me asunder, how on earth have a lived without you, oh joyous wonder.
And so the queen did doth find,
a meaning to her dreaming mind.
And so the scent did become hers,
a means for a queen
who had only but a scented dream.