A curled up mouse, woken by a silken voice.
  
"Ah how they dance! 
Never did I see feathers fly this way
even as I stole into in the hen coup."
     Says an old fox.

"And oh how they love!
So distinguished a courtship,
loosing that fear and dread:
the life for such as they."
     Says the fox.

"They place but the finest sweets upon the board,
you'd think you'd moved to heaven
and satiation was unheard of."
     The fox croons.

"The evenings are jasmine scented and carefree.
Here is the birthplace of the only stories
generations will care to tell."
     So sayeth the fox.

The mouse awakened thus 
wipes the dust from her spectacles
and the tear from her eye.

This cell behind the mouse-hole door
has been world enough these years.
These dreams-come-true, a fox's telling of them:
mere imaginings? 

She believes every word!

The poor mouse could ease through her door
 and skitter across the tiles 
towards the music she fancies sweetly tinkling.

Chances are she would be torn apart 
before reaching safety.
Or she could tear herself apart thinking of 
the gold, the silver...