C'est la fin de la fantaisie, la fin d'un rêve...
It used to be tranquil
The serenade under the moonlight on a cool breezy night
The moon, perfect in her nudity,
smiled in her usual demure manner
The sound of the
Cicadas and the occasional sweet
music played on a bamboo flute.
While dreams were woven
and entered
never to be forsaken
never to be traded for reality
A fantastic sphere of
phantasmagoria,
fractally chaotic and yet
beautiful.
Inside the chamber she lies asleep
Her sweet lips unfamiliar with the bitterness
of the world.
And then the boom of thunder
A flash of lightning
The sound of trumpets heralding
the coming of the apocalypse.
Man's fall from man's own doing.
She opens her eyes
lazily, hesitantly,
unwilling to face the harsh, crude reality
Where she was thrown by the fates
like Heaven's judgement
to punish her for dreaming
such wonderful dreams.
She looks out of the window
sees a world of no mercy
a world devoid of colors and of
pleasant scents
scintillating scenes.
She sheds a tear
embraces herself.
They pay the price for her fantasies.
Her bow and arrow she takes up
flees to the darkness,
leaves everything to chance,
guided only by sheer will
and by the ardent flame that resides
deep in her heart.
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