This one hides his nose in his books, in his books.
This one sleeps like a hamster inside my hands.
This one's a little boy, without a care in the world.
This one's many mysteries only hinted at with a smile.
But where do they hide their hearts, I wonder?
Where do they sleep when I'm dreaming in his bed?
How many riddles should I write into poem?
So he'd smile for me: a most reckless hint.