Illusions are not born; they are woven
from the finest strands of twilight and desire
Our mind weaves them with the skillful fingers of hope
until it sews a dress in which reality looks more beautiful
They live in the wall between two rooms
They hear a whisper, but not the whole sentence
They feed on what is not said
and what we wanted and decided to hear
They function so perfectly
Their mechanism clicks with a quiet, sure sound
The hand is always on luck, the battery on faith
And the little golden sprout never stops
Their bones are made of sugar – sweet and fragile
They bleed with light when we scratch them
They have knots that you must not untie
and that disappears under the touch of truth
We feed them every day
We throw pieces of our naivety into their cage
And they respond to us with a song that sounds quieter
and quieter and quieter, until fatigue overcomes us
DoubleSpeak 