Then the queen gestured with her hand. All movement ceased. She spoke in a voice that made my soul vibrate as the strings of the lute vibrate when touched by the musician’s hand. It was as though in these magical surroundings all things had ears. “I called you, mortal man. I am the mistress of the theatres of imagination. I have granted you leave to stand before me. I am the queen of the forest of dreams. Listen to my counsels and proclaim them before mankind. Tell them that the city of imagination is a wedding feast, but its gate is barred by a giant demon who will allow only those to enter who wear finery for the feast. Tell them that it is a paradise guarded by the angel of love and no one will see it save those on whose brow is burned the brand of love. It is a meadow of fantasies, whose rivers are sweet as wine, whose birds sing like angels, whose air is fragrant with flowers—but only the son of dreams will walk in that meadow. Tell men that I have granted them a chalice overflowing with happiness, but they have spilled it in their ignorance. Now the angel of darkness has come and filled it with the distillation of sorrow. They have drained the cup and are drunk with it. Say that they cannot play the lyre of life with skill unless their fingertips have touched my belt and their eyes have gazed upon my throne.

“The verses of Isaiah were pearls of wisdom which he threaded upon the strings of my love. With my tongue John told of his vision. It was I who guided Dante through the realms of the spirits. I am a metaphor that embraces reality, a reality that reveals the unity of the soul, a witness who justifies the ways of the gods. Tell them that thought has a homeland more splendid that the world of visible things, a homeland whose sky is not obscured by clouds of happiness. Tell them that what they imagine is drawn in the sky of the gods and reflected upon the mirror of their souls. Thus may they hope for more when they are freed from this lower life.”

The Queen of Imagination drew me toward her by a magical glance and kissed my flaming lips. “And tell them: whosoever does not spend his days in the theatre of dreams is a slave all his days.”

At that the voices of the maidens grew louder, the pillars of incense rose, and the vision was concealed. Then the earth shook and the sky trembled and I found myself among those sad ruins. Dawn was smiling, but still between my tongue and lips were these words, “Whosoever does not spend his days in the theatre of dreams is a slave all his days.”

WORDS OF LOVE

WORDS OF LOVE