In Schlaraffenland

In the land so aptly named Schlaraffenland, he slaved all day and searched each moonlit night deep in the forest for the treasures of the Gods. His name was Hickelfloggendorp, a Nordic specimen, he'd dig with callused hands the forest floor for truffles, under bushes and the roots of pine. He could not see inside the silence of the mound, he felt a gap, a horizontal port of call, half hidden in the curls of moss, it beckoned still until he entered into darkness, it was brave, the great unknown surrounding, rivulets of dew fell on his skin and drops of rain slipped from above off convolutions at the crown of this dark cave, exotic fragrances like London Mist adrift he felt pure velvet and his ears took in the cries of urges dissonant and baritone to shrill, a desert wind without the sand but bearing heat blew onto loins and dried pudendal skin at will. There was a softness of pure velvet, a small teat now swelling quickly and he realised that eyes were now as futile as his hands beneath this bridge he left him standing there, a warrior and a fool there would be time to use his services and size but until then he would be left there just to drool. He spoke in tongues now and was watched with envious eyes by a chameleon and owls in handsome trees, this was new territory, whispers in its throat he'd entered stone-henged walls and smelled the breath of bees, and found a silence and the promise of a moat. He felt it rising now, the sap from secret tubes released by aches and tiny spasms from the ground and only instinct led him, welcome Rubik's Cubes, a froth of liquid oozes, all without a sound before he catches it, spills slowly onto hips and there is movement now, the sails of floating ships