Well… nothing much to say about this poem. The title and its content speaks for itself.

—

The door of the glasshouse opens,
Child wears high heels three size large.
Thousand roads and a dark mist hide,
That roses form no lovely paths.

Three hands continue their race,
No one man is waited for.
Frozen by everlasting snow,
Little fairies cry alone.

Toil and coin is all there is,
In the mirage of promised gold.
A roof and food is left alone,
The forgotten treasures of the old.

Jewels or tattered shroud adorned,
Hides not the wrinkled and yellow.
The wax grows short and the wick no more,
The last door admits only the soul.