The Mycenaean people carried Tiriseroe as a god
his valor with the capacity of any three men
and he rose into the divine realms,
but still his body fell with age
when time pressed into his existence
and he received the fate that is bestowed upon us.

I carried you over the the threshold of my temple
my hands with the power to shape water and sand into flesh
and you floated above them weightless,
but still my lips trembled with desire
when they pressed into your skin
and you received the blessings that you bestowed upon me.

In the same way that you receive my words through text,
my words with weight much heavier than you
and they sink below you like anchors,
but still my ears rang with distress
when the spoken words pressed into my brain
and I received the contempt that was bestowed upon me.

If Tiriseroe, with all of his valor,
could not overcome the fate that he faced,
then I would be foolish to believe
that my hands and words and the blessings they bestow
can overcome the fate that awaits us.