In this ancient time-fouled city discredited gods do brood
on all the imagined
insults which down the aeons they've received.
It is a place of graves and
here dreams are destroyed.
Dreams are brought from all the corners of the
world
to be crushed or ripped or melted down
into a healthy
cynicism.
Here are tricksters born,
and fools divested of
enchantment.
This is where Pierrot is killed
and from his flesh
Harlequin created.
To race across the world, laughing at nothing,
laughing at everything,
laughing at his pain,
laughing at the tired gods
who bore him.
Here in this city, this city of shades,
this city of irony
bereft of imagination
this city of suppression
this city of
pragmatism
where the jesters weep
and the tricksters scheme.
Parading in motley.
Too afraid to scream.
Too wary to acknowledge
love
unless love's made a game.
A game which they can win.
Here, in this city of swaggering fantastico's, of calculated gallantry.
Was
Harlequin the trickster born, to go about the world, to win
to attract; to
display an easy cleverness; to lie and to deceive
to show what shallow things
are dreams, promises impossible to keep
and should he meet with frankness,
unashamed honesty.
Back to this city Harlequin may flee.
To be
replenished, armed afresh by his weary masters,
The gorgeous gods of
disharmony...
