Neither flat nor house makes my lair,
But a white castle built in the air.
High above the shifting Sand
Of a foreign and lone island
Stands my abode and my home
Where I live in a room of my own
There is no door, no welcoming chime
For the wordless drifter imposing on my time.
I care not for your face or your looks
I have no love to spare
For things not written in books
Don't come in here and abuse what I love
You might not like the taste of my tongue
But if you think with your heart, if you are
Mithril forger and weaver of charm
Don´t limp and crawl in here but fly
For there is a hole in the roof for me to see the sky.
Speak the right word, write the right line,
Your words with mine will sing and twine.
Then neither flat nor house will be more fair
Than this white castle we'll build in the air
For high above the whispering sands
Of the warmest and loveliest of lands
This hearth you'll find, and also my home,
That room of mine, shall be a place of your own.