The dances are spirited, with happy couples moving in perfect timing with the music of world famous bands.
Pluto looks on the festivities, notes when interest fades, introduces new diversions, keeps the activity ever moving, ever exciting.
Yet with his best efforts, at times, the sound of revelry fades. From out the walls, from beyond the moat, the moans and lamentations, screams of never-ending pain, weeping. Misery lies without. And all the charades within the castle walls cannot disguise that this is, indeed, the abode of the damned. Always, like a blanket of gloom, reality envelopes that great castle.
And finally, in the early morning hours, the guests are spirited back to their earthly abodes. The musicians put away their instruments, the entertainers retreat to their dressing rooms, the great hall is cleaned, and all who have catered the festivities return once more to their fated punishment.
Only Pluto remains, seated, dour and melancholy, on the great throne.
No bright and lilting music, no gay conversation, no happy laughter masks the lamentations from without.
The party is over!
This is the Garden of Pluto.
The Garden of Persephone, unattended, lies in waste.
The Garden of Pluto endures, tended by slaves who dream of emancipation - and labor eternally.