60 To Douglas
You are the mighty master of your tiny toys --
Giant ancient cities fitting in your palm,
And fortresses from gilded sand you never lost --
You turn the key, and trains go round and round.
You are the tiny boy with silvered sand in hair,
The alphabet in wrinkles on your face.
The landscapes of your room, the palace of your chair,
The room of your own mouth -- it's where you reign.
You lock your trembling bells behind the thick cuirass,
But they still resonate to any voice --
They hit you from inside, they call you to defend
Your kingdom with the armour of a boy.
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