Dragonflies, dragonflies.
Printed on my pillow,
One by one, they come to life,
And fly right out the window.

Little monsters, tiny monsters,
Glide across my wall,
They run with stealth and elegance,
Through open doors they crawl.

The fabric running down the stairs,
Becomes a long cascade,
And at the bottom, forms a pond,
Of every color and every shade.

The singing train, the singing train,
Will strangely numb the aching pain,
And take me down to somewhere deep,
A murky place that they call sleep.

And by the time the sun arrives,
The darkness is erased,
And the water flowing down the stairs,
Is just an empty space,

The lively monsters in the house,
Just shadows of the trees,
But the dragonflies, the dragonflies,
Are a mystery to me.