The prophet’s eyes glazed over as his mouth fell open. Whatever visions danced before him, they were dark to us. Sweat poured down his temples, and tears his cheeks.
The king’s head bowed, letting his golden crown fall with a clatter against the floor. Slumped there upon his throne, he gave no orders.
The queen let her hair down, and the princess walked on bare feet by the river. She laughs with the nymphs of the brook, unseen and spirit; the queen is silent, her dress torn away.
The prince drank deeply and leapt upon his horse. Backwards in the saddle, he spurs his beast with furry, but his home only shrinks into the horizon.
And now this dream has come to us. The night breaks with our screams. “Oh cannot we awake?” we cry. “Cannot we flee this illusion?”
“Only if you first will dream,” I say, but they cannot hear. “You cannot come home unless you leave,” I shout, but they cannot repent. “You cannot take off your clothes if you are naked.”
“Madman,” they cry, “spouting inane tautologies.”
Tale Told 