//-------------------------------------------------------// Whispers on the Wind -by Foehn- //-------------------------------------------------------// //-------------------------------------------------------// 2. Dream a Little Dream - The Old Stallion //-------------------------------------------------------// 2. Dream a Little Dream - The Old Stallion The old stallion calls me Out of fear of unrest, and the unknown. He needn’t have bothered; The dream is restless And I walk alone In a land of strangers. The Mooken Dream of their goddess Dayang Dayang Mangilai And her sacred dangkan tree Each blossom, they say, each leaf Tells a story Joined by so many Vines and branches all tangled together. And they speak of their great Kalamats The most skilful, it is said Could trace by moonlight The ways and paths between And in doing so, Illuminate for themselves The dreams of others I am no god Nor have I ever known a goddess Save the Sun and Moon. Yet dreams do not lie. I behold the tree: It is dead. Its branches are gone Its trunk is gone And its roots are covered In thorns of the thousand Black roses that ensnared it, Sapped it of its life, And died themselves: Their petals form a stygian carpet Upon the grave. There is another tree, Sprouting from the Broken limbs of the first And it lives And branch by branch I can follow it And trace its stories I step closer and the         dream bends around me A lily, wilted And in its place A rose, black without But a bloodier shade within A rose by any other name Is just as cruel; Littlemoth Palei Hantu Changeling why don’t they suspect me yet i had no choice i was starving knew i couldn’t hide amongst the two-legs but all the others were dead and i couldn’t pass the Wall for fear of being trapped too risky they said the two-legs can see the things between and will see you too i took the risk A bluebell droops over The roses’ head Leaning ever Closer I am a dedicated bull, Palei Hantu. When I caught you bedding my brother and you ran from his hut of course they found out i was stupid, desperate but not dead like the others why did he chase me to the Wall of all places even we avoid that place perhaps he knew and thought he’d trap me outside i took another risk and though spotted by the Myinn guard who sat up startled after you vaulted the rampart shouted and flung his spear at me a quick confounding and the guard was none the wiser i had to find someone to replace too many eyes and ears on the wall i slunk away found one with wings of skin and grey i was so careless i had no time her body thrown off the docks All around a chorus of whispers answers: The lines between dreams blur and though i feed upon them drew the gazes of the room like a lightning-bug upon a darkened stage and the foolish guard until Dawn Patrol fluttered to her flame and another as our tangled bodies sung carnal hymns to each other i know it won’t last i know they'll find her any day now i'm trapped again where are the boats where are the boats The question Rings out; The whispers Are silent Confused And waiting A dawn lotus floats in the black rose’s shadow; It’s petals All the darker It answers; I listen Littlemoth dances behind my eyelids. I can’t let them get her Can’t let them know because as soon as they do they’ll chase them and they’ll come after her and the others. I can’t stop the ships forever, but if I can find a moment alone with her I’ll flee with her As soon as I can get her alone At the thought Of the ships, the dangkan responds: A creeper girdles the tree trunk choking the life of an emerald limb Majority refuses to answer                                                                                                                                 The boats have stopped and I when we ask him why the                                                                                                                                           do not know why or who boats have stopped coming                                                                                                                                         is responsible only that it I suspect something                                                                                                                                             means more raised voices and is going on; that we are not                                                                                                                                        more raised voices means being told the truth or rather                                                                                                                                     dissent and complaints and Majority is not telling the truth                                                                                                                           Peridot always was the loudest Where is the money going                                                                                                                                     She doesn’t trust me nor I her no trade and yet he                                                                                                                                             I knew the old witch never could refuses to lower the taxes                                                                                                                                 be trusted to know her place and he demands a skeleton                                                                                                                                         even if she does not suspect my crew (let’s face it: our                                                                                                                                              deceptions (and I suspect that garrison is nearly empty                                                                                                                                        she does) she’s too much of an if one discounts the                                                                                                                                                influence stirring up the wrong drunks and tuft-ears)                                                                                                                                               kind of trouble you have to be needs not the funds                                                                                                                                              careful a whisper in one ear and he’s been hiding he says                                                                                                                                      poison in the other is the way to a ship’s come in down at the docks                                                                                                                      do it not screaming in front of a I don’t believe him of course                                                                                                                             full hall though blaming the tuft- but I’m not sleeping so where’s                                                                                                                       ears now that’s an idea I’ll have to the harm in confronting the                                                                                                                                off her and make do with what’s old sod                                                                                                                                                                                                        to come Feck 'em both. Gonna wake me up by trippin' over me at half past midnight stumblin' toward the docks Silence                                                                                                                                                                 easier done than said in the end surrounds and                                                                                                                                                         blame her death on the kelpies I merely wish                                                                                                                                                           now that’s the thing maybe a I had known                                                                                                                                                               speech to pull us all together that that                                                                                                                                                                       shaming those tuft-ears into was what                                                                                                                                                                     pulling their load should be I wanted                                                                                                                                                                     popular with the merchants Enough. I step away and the         dream breaks around me. The tree stands still again Its limbs singing Of world brought to ruin For the want of vengeance And safe harbour; In the name of love And righteous suspicion Born of greed; And death born Of greed Giving birth to Unfounded suspicion In the name of unfounded Hatred Until all the blossoms one by one Wilt and fall In a flaky rain that Covers the carpet of thorns Upon which the tree rests The rain                will not                             stop until                                              all of the                                                              branches                                                                              are bare Perhaps Dayang Dayang Mangilai was no goddess But a pony Condemned to Watch The mistakes of others Powerless To stop the fall of all she held dear And I know, now What great lament she cried When she saw  the Very roots by which Her tree grew and spread Its limbs, were the agents Of its long undoing Peridot is dead and I will not mourn her passing. And yet I wonder: For this, will I fall with them? Dawn comes, and I must Leave this dream for the other Though my thoughts linger On that final flower. Know this, Majority: There will yet be a reckoning. She stands By the docks Refusing to answer The voice of the dangkan And a cloudless sky. Far above The pale moon Whispers: “We will meet again before you die.” //-------------------------------------------------------// 1. Rhapsody //-------------------------------------------------------// 1. Rhapsody A mare stands in an empty room. At night-time. There’s a full moon, and it’s snowing. She’s playing a string instrument. Any string instrument. A violin. A viola. A cello. It doesn’t matter. There’s nobody to hear it. The crackling of a new log in the old fireplace. A mare continues to play her viola. A whole sonata. Wordless. Eyes closed. Ears open. Listening. An old stallion in his chair, creaking as he gazes fondly at two foals asleep on a couch. A pegasus winging through the night, starlight playing off his frantic motions. A colt walking through the silent streets, leaving hoofprints in the snow. In the distance, there is music. He pauses. In a room – any room – a mare stands, playing. Her violin sings. Firelight traces her form as she steps, this way and that, dancing between the shadows. The smell of smoke. The grit of dust and dirt beneath hooves. The chill of winter through an open window. A mare. Any mare. A mother in a white apron, with soot on one corner and something smeared across the other. A filly, restless, watching a colt walk by from between shuttered blinds. A mare, sleeping. Fitfully. Dreaming of fire and brimstone, and whole mountains and oceans that peel away, until there’s nothing but her and a wall covered in the scrawl of a half-empty marker pen. A mare stands in an empty room. The paint is peeling. A fugue, half finished, scrawled in pen. In her hooves, a cello sings. A whole cantata. A whole choir. Breathless. Voiceless. On one string. The mare listens. An old postcard on the mantelpiece, its picture faded only in her memory. The smell of warm pastries on cold mornings, held tight in hoof. The old clock marking the midnight hour, ringing out promises of warm daylight and a new tomorrow In an empty room, a mare pauses. Fingers of moonlight dapple her coat. She listens. Hoofsteps below. Wingbeats above. Creaking adjacent. Shutters closed, doors locked, fires crackling. And for a moment – She opens her eyes. In a crowded room, a mare resumes. The song has changed. And it is heard. A colt walks down an empty street at night-time, through the snow, in the moonlight, in the starlight, past the bakery, hoofprints in his wake, listening to the sound of a violin in an empty room. He likes the music.