The Breath of a Moment

But then the dreams we held so gently in our cupped palms were easily broken. It only took the breath of a moment to blow them away to shatter irreparably on the hard stony ground where we spent our days waiting for the night.

We wandered these bare, broken lands all through the unforgiving heat and light of the day, looking for shade, looking for shadows where we could sit with our cupped palms at the ready, waiting for a dream to creep into them.

The day dreams, though, were far less substantial than the night time dreams, easily torn apart by the dust storms blowing all around these ruins of what used to be our great civilisation, before we learnt the power of dreams.

Now, all we can do is tend the delicate day dreams, keeping them as safe as we can while we wait for the protecting night to cover us with its blankets, so we can – at last – open our hands and watch the dreams dance across the darkness of the night, weaving their way around these ruins and almost touching the stars that sit looking down on us, like the gods they used to be.

The dreams turn and twist, turning these ruins back into towers and palaces, letting the wasting river flowing in full flood as boats, ships and barges ply their trade in our bustling port, all while the slaves and servants busy themselves with our comfort, so we can sit back and dream.