They stand apart, waiting for the moment that will bring them together. He holds the last symbol of life. She stands protected against all that fire. They are the mysterious hope of the kingdom. It would take all the secret forces of the land to bring them together. It would take an act of magic beyond the madness of the times. They stand at the end of a secret tradition that has passed through Atlantis and the pyramids. The lost word quivers around them in the enchanted air. The world waits with the last dying flower for the difficult miracle.
Outside this ring of trees, they say the world is burning. In the evening, through the hyacinth leaves, we sometimes glimpse people falling from the high towers. They fall without a sound. Then, much later, across the waters, we hear the delayed cry of that fall.
Rumours come to us from beyond. Rumours of a church in green flames, of wailing sirens beyond the tower blocks, of frozen music in desolate houses. Rumours of marauding bands of foxes who eat from the tables of abandoned homesteads, and who watch televisions that are never switched off.
Rats the size of dogs live in decaying maisonettes. The rats have eaten the foundations of the palaces. They can be seen in the square where the queen once waved to her sleepless subjects.
There is a steady murmur in the land beyond. Somewhere across the wasteland a lost symphony howls from a radio in a garbage can. A digital electronic heat has decomposed the colour of the clouds. The gibbering of the mad, the anxious and the disillusioned can be heard across the river.
Even atheists have lost their faith. Money brands the palms of those who hold it. Gold has lost its meaning. In the dry broadcasts of that electronic dawn we learn that the famous have lost their reason, the rich have lost their minds, and the beautiful have lost their glamour. The Government rules with the claws of crows. Only the indifferent get elected.
But you are here now in this ring of trees. The turtle dove murmurs yellow melodies. Flute music waters the lavender and honeysuckle. The houses here are all symbols with spacious rooms in which the air is pure. The blue clouds create a reality that is like a dream. In this garden they stand and they wait. He holds the ankh like a weapon against fire. Her bridal dress is a panacea against all corruption. Her arms folded in benediction. Time is magical here.
The alchemical ceremony takes place under the aegis of the unseen masters. There are no witnesses, except our hopes. It is a mystic betrothal in an age of madness. The flower blooms again as the syllables renew the air. Something has changed in the heart of the fallen kingdom. The water tastes new in the rivers.