My Piper's Dream
“Are you not weary of ardent ways, Lure of the fallen seraphim? Tell no more of enchanted days ” – James Joyce I kept listening to the Piper’s dream. In the gliding whistles of Northerly winds, over the foamy white crests of swelling waves, within the metamorphosis of every note and beyond with the endless beyond of silvery glitters from above and from endless above of the blushing moon. The veil of dark clouds running towards some unknown edge, now here, now there, now gone, now here again. Silvery tears trickled down and tickled the waters ahead. Gone now! She runs away! The temper accelerates, the tempo rises, waves fall! Are you not weary of ardent ways? There I saw magnanimous unearthly forms! Ah! Fascinating heads rising ahead! The silvery crests of those mighty unicorns! Driven by fury and yet such grace in their flight! Oh Laocoon, here comes the last judgment; the voluptuous rider will terminate the days of the priests! Run Laocoon! Run! Run for your li