The woodpecker's dream

Inspired by the Ramayana

Stars peek in through the gaps in the living canopy overhead like curious neighbours at a poolside party.

The fire dances like a harlem queen, shamelessly.

The shaman dances on, his loincloth swaying like a fabric phallus in the presence of exquisite lingerie.

He holds a sceptre. An alabaster rod with an intricate carving of a serpent slithering through time.

The fur that he wears is singed here and there - evidences of earlier dances in front of more primeval fires.

He is ready to tell the story. Only it is not a story. It is the sound of the earth. The sound of plants crying. The sweet wailing of the jungle fowl. The cacaphony of the treepies. The wild party of the owls. He talks like the falling waters. He whispers like snakes mating.

"Winter is when woodpeckers dream. In the forests of antiquity, the woodpeckers peck away at the minds of sages. The wind tiptoes through the oaks. The gigantic pines are silent sentinels seemingly standing over an organic crypt. A city beyond human comprehension stretches and sleeps peacefully in the afternoon sunlight. It is yesterday."

A faint smell weaves its way through the layers of magic electrifying the air. The smell of burning sage.

The smell of dead angels.

A hollow pecking sound repeats from the nether regions of the dark forest. A woodpecker having a nightmare, perhaps?

"She strolls in, from everywhere. She weaves a dress from the soft grass that grows in the higher meadows. She dips a finger in the cold rushing waters and adorns her nose with a dazzling ring. She coaxes a sleeping plant to give birth to lillies in the winter. And then she sings."

Stars weep cold mist at the sad song. The trees shiver with goosebumps that startle sleeping thrushes. The cold seeps like dirty water in the lungs. She sings and she weeps, her teardrops making the earth bleed.

"There stands, across the pond, a stately figure. His body glimmers like polished ebony. His chest as broad as the unforgiving desert. His eyes sparkle like the crescent moon. He wears the forest around his waist to cover his eager organ. His countenance speaks of royal birth and a rugged life. He pledges his heart to the daughter of the earth. She returns his gaze, caressing him with her doe-like eyes. Her eye lashes tug at him, and his look threatens to incinerate her."

The sceptre is now an erect penis, thrusting at the fire. The sparks fly at every thrust, like heated spurts of semen.

"This is the woodpecker's dream, of forgotten wisdoms and broken spires. Of untold truths and elusive nymphs. The dream shatters with the hunter's arrow. Clouds weep at the wake."