If I may call to the same Muse, and say in advance that I am sorry for any mischief that may come from this tale.

A long time ago in a place long forgotten, there was a field. By the field there was a forest, not green like heavens and not black as the night, but diverse and in all ways unseen. Paths ran through the forest, though no one ever walked them, except for the fauns in their daily walks.
By the forest on the field there was a house, and in the house, there was a family.
One day the children grew up, all so sudden, and they made no home there any longer. One by one they left, but not by the paths, because no one ever walked them, and so it had to remain. They left by their own ways. And when at last they were two in the house, they had to leave as well, for it was the fall and the field was dying for the first time in their short lived lives.
They went on and on, until they met a crossroads of their own ways. They knew one of their siblings had gone onwards.
"How far can you go into a forest?" one of them asked.
But none of them knew, for the forest was in all ways unseen.
But they had to know, because there are things one has to know, but the day was coming short, so they took separate paths, West and East they went on the same road, and both found their direction to be good.
And they walked onwards, but there was no end to the forest unseen, and night fell upon them. When they woke up, there was no sign of the way they had come by, and no way to go back.
See the crossroads was broken, for by the moonlight many things break and are made anew. And they went onwards for there was only onwards, no backwards.
But where there had been the crossroads, although none of the children could ever find the place again, a star fell, and there came out of nothing a fireplace, and a phoenix took its living there, forever burning, forever alive.

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Phoenix is a higher meaning. It is the absolute something to reach to. Dreams are more possible. Dreams are alive, a phoenix isn't really.

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I guess I understand it a bit differently. To me, the dream is the fire itself, and for as long as it burns, it is alive.
But it might very well be that I'm just bending my reality to fit my favourite metaphors. I don't know anymore.

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