The Dream Dreamt By a Surrealist

Life is not enigmatic but eerie, life lives on sucking blood though it’s not Count Dracula; after sundown you won’t see a thing even if you don’t cover yourself with a black cloak. In the dark of the early April morning, however, you’ll see Persephone coming in black mourning dress holding a rock folded in a blanket to find the flowers not yet bloomed. Dreams she dreamt in the cold and dark pit during the winter were not of the baby’s face, but the sound of stones crushing in her womb; and when corpse covered with the fallen petals that have never flowered decaying in the womb, gives off a foul smell; the maggots writhing on the dead in the casket struggle to win wings and as wings grow, they fly in the air as a swarm of flies. When the sun, comes driving its golden chariot in the sky where no flowers ever bloomed all year around, go after the maidens and draw the bow, dashing arrows thrust the maidens in their trembling hearts. As red blood from the fallen maidens seeps into the river, Persephone gathers the spirits wandering in the air crying; then, the night falls, Persephone kisses the baby on her cheek and puts her down by the riverside; then, you hear the sound of murmuring water go with the baby’s cry stepping on shallow water-bed stones. When the sun that will never rise in the morning sinks into the horizon; before you finish reading the letter written on a fallen leaf, blown by the passing wind , drifts on the water of no tomorrow.