The regular columns, their broken remains, measured out the old theatre’s perimeter. He stood in its centre, dreaming of the crowds which once sat spellbound to tragedies, uproared at comedies, and in all ways were the ever submissive second part to the true artist. His glossy eyes saw what perhaps no dancer or writer or actor has ever truly seen, but he dreamed.
Gentle strains of music rebounded off his deaf ears—he’d hear nothing outside his fantasy—a boy lazily interweaving thin tunes into a lullaby. He ushered in the night, the earth sighing with sleep as the piper played. The darkness rose above the country, and all, yawning and stretching, returned to their homes.
One man returned with sketches under his arm, his day’s work. He’d mapped the pillars, and sought to see what they had truly been. Thin black lines across clean white sheets now showed what he had imagined the world to be. He heard the piper’s song, and dreamed great dreams.