I dream of dark seas and the wind howling down from the edge
of a cliff. Trees around me are bending under its force, leaves flying in the
darkness. Rain is whipping ancient ruins and thunder is rumbling in the
distance, illuminating the freakishly beautiful landscape. A magnificent silver
ship is dancing in the sea, like a precious toy. The moon hides and the night
never ends.
I dream of jet black horses running wild in violet-coloured
fields next to crimson rivers at the foot of an impossibly high mountain that
casts its shadow to all the land. Eagles are flying over my head without
flapping their wings.
I dream of nooses hanging from the branches of old trees
that still echo the last agonising breaths of people who hung there. Of the
tears that fell on the ground as their loved ones watched them die, unable to
save them.
Of bombed cities I dream, of buildings whose purpose remains
unknown, of institutions like banks and committees and corporate responsibility
organisations. Their definitions can now only be found in ancient
dictionaries.
I dream of foggy ruins at dawn, of magnificent chandeliers
where spiders have now made their webs, shining like jewels in the mist. Of
stone-carved fireplaces that haven’t seen glowing embers for a very long time. Poisonous
plants now grow around them and birds have built their nests in there. The slightest
movement makes dust fly around like a whisper.
