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 life! The wisdom borne out of tears of darkness will rip you apart. Here! The rider comes in white shining armor molded from dense fog and mist. His eyes, solemn and subtle but his stare shaping the grand Excalibur – oh! The shroud of his breath veiled my sight, flamed my heart and my fragile vessel traversed forth.

I kept listening to the Piper’s dream.

The clouds passed. The helm between my hands sneers away, balance hanging from my mind; and myself? Myself, swinging in the pendulomonium between constellations, around the sun, with the waters drifting my vessel away. I hold on, I stand still. A calm morning will come and will pass by. The faraway islands came into sight. The golden streams of the morning sun showing me the way; the arc of heavens showing me the door. Rainbow colors all across the sky! There, right there! Follow the light, my dear… 

Are you not weary of ardent ways?

Piper, Piper! Do I need a key? But, no keyhole on the door! Oh! How do I enter? Where is the key? Mephistopheles laughs! Ha! Ha! Ha! No magic in your mind? The will strives; the dream follows…

I keep listening to my Piper’s dream.

My heart throbbing. Veins trembling. Blood shivering. Fire erupts out of this melancholic core. Nothing has stopped. The waves keep beating on the hull of my vessel; follows on! Tempo rises, falls, rises! Goes on! Goes on!

I keep listening to my Piper’s dream.

Seeking a quiet solemn sweet bondage in flames of imagination, in the winds of human breath and in subtle contemplation. On, in, on…flows in…flows on…flows out. Rises, falls, rises to the synchronized swing of that floating autumn leaf. Ah! Pendulomonium! This fragile self knows not his destiny but smiles and smiles away in the sweet symphony of his Piper’s dream.

I keep listening to my Piper’s dream.

My sight stretching over the blurred horizon, over far stretched green carpets towards the ancestral family of woods. Long distant hoof-beats of a galloping horse slowed down, quickly and suddenly. Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop…thumps on the hard clay and soft grass. Soft, calm, intruding steps falls on the undisturbed ages of the saint’s garden. One at a time, step by step, the thoughts tremble, the nerves shiver, flames of passion have their eternal return from a man aspiring to be more than a man. Oh Nature! The sympathy of clay chains him to the worlds below; the celestial heavens imprison his mind.

Are you not weary of ardent ways?

In quest of a special key? Mephistopheles smirks. He heard that laugh before. Familiar?

Ah! Yes! He just imprisoned himself, the celestial angels waited. No whispers this time. No guiding voice. It’s all empty air. No one speaks. No one to listen. Threw a stone into that running current.

A key? Oh no dear! Don’t say you want a key. The question is a ripple; do not roll away another stone. Stay quiet; stay still. Just stay. There is no door to be opened. No door that is closed. What are you looking for? Shhhhh….silence please!

This fragile thread is strained in its longing amidst the feathers of his Piper’s dream. Break apart? Break away? No, hold on. Freedom, my darling, is the feather fallen at your feet, lying dead in deep slumber warmed in your mother’s womb; but this bird has always been on his wings. Always. No time to stop, to look or turn back.

Are you not weary of ardent ways?

That’s just one fallen feather! Look above! See, how gracefully he is soaring high! More feathers there! Falling apart! Thunderous fall of his golden feathers that weaves the garment of centuries itself! He does not care; no he does not. Not tired yet, not of his ardent ways.

In trance he moves, he floats, he soars higher and higher up in the lullaby of his Piper’s dream.

I keep listening to my Piper’s dream…

…..I keep listening to the echoes of man running their course from sanity to insanity…to and fro..back and forth…Pendulomonium! I keep listening to that strange laughter of this fragile self; that ardent laughter creating rainbows of existence from the tears of the Vitruvian Man; that savage symbol, which knows not the blurred borders between tears of sorrow and tears of happiness, laughs away only to keep the wheel running. Weary? No. Passion is an eternal flame; She burns, he laughs! Ah! Touched the right chord; it is tuned to the symphony of my Piper’s dream….and I keep listening to my Piper’s dream.

“And still you hold our longing gaze

With languorous look and lavish limb!

Are you not weary of ardent ways?

Tell no more of enchanted days.”