If the skies could dream, they would dream of scarlet rose petals spewing their perfume and dressing white clouds. They would dream of those clouds dancing in a ballroom sustained by columns made of sunrays and bathed in moonlight. They would dream of them celebrating the wedding of the Moon and the Sun, who, sitting on thrones of cascading rain, exchange kisses made of lighting with hearts throbbing like thunders. They would dream of a world where skies and lands meet, happily bursting into colourful rainbows.
But can they dream? Do they reel unaware of the eternal movement that they shelter? Or do they dream of people who wish to fly and catch the rose petals, of people who fight the currents and the universal order to cause the Sun's and the Moon's meeting?
What if they can't dream, and they are up there because we, people, dreamt them into being? What if it's the other way around, and we are their sleepy illusion?
If the skies could dream, I'm sure they'd dream of walking as we dream of flying; walking for only one day to taste the salty tears, to elate in bursts of laughter, to curl in pain when shards of broken heart pierce their marrow, to joyously run through fields kissed by dew, for then, to float again home in happily surrender: they have lived a day of a human life!
That would be a beautiful dream, don’t you say? If only they could! I wish they would!
Sh! They’re opening their eyelids made of white vapours! It’s raining!
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