The road looked back at us, with constellations in it’s vision, stuck to the back of our dreams. Four of us screamed out and the night wept alone. The road was complaining, in a voice mirrored by 800 years of searching it cried and we each fell into a marble silence. It was as though our dreams had escaped into liquid forms and begun to stain the horizon. Crystal ideas stood unanswerable by our collective intelligence. Grappling with sharp tongues the future threw at us, our reality was distant, unoccupied. We invented names for the god who might save us. We designed houses of millennia for him to leave empty while he rescued us from the tyranny of a vacant reality. His past victories we celebrated. New rituals were conjured so he would forgive us for forgetting him. I stared at the wall waiting for the rains to stampede the roof. The room was changing religion, growing and breathing our stillness. I spoke to the wall with tears, and the wall replied twice with the voice of my mother, twice with the sun and moon in reverse. When the sun and moon spoke, it was of invaders and genocide. Good men who knew the Earth slaughtered and their daughters raped, sons enslaved. The moon listened as the sun confessed to accepting bribes from more wealthy constellations. My dreams tasted their lies and my heart searched for traces of winter in their dialog. Not far from here was a man singing. His voice swallowed the world, moving and enchanting, freeing and romanticising all that we had lost. It made the women tense as though their bodies grew lighter and they would float away otherwise. The men knew the words but refused to sing along. Every so often they would agree to the rhythm he danced in the darkness. But his song somehow choked the night, he couldn’t see it but the breath of the night grew shorter. The moon would suddenly forget our conversation and go on teasing the ocean in her voice.