She was a monster who lost the sharpness of her fangs,
Who ran away to hide inside an old, mystical cave
With faded black and white photographs on wooden frames
Hanging on its cold, uneven walls.
There were dozens of fireflies dancing in the shadows
To which she compared the beauty of the stars.
There were cracked mirrors and cobwebs and broken clocks
And old binoculars with dusts permanently embracing its lenses.
There was a tiny forest at the bottom of the cave
With miniature trees and lakes and stagnant rivers
Where the three-inch rainbow-bearded goats and one-eyed faeries play.
She spent the whole afternoon sitting on a small flowerbed
Beneath the cracks where the sun was shinning --
Dazzling and serene, magical and quiet,
As she read thousands of tales about the real big things.