The bravest of us all, was indeed the queen of Carthage. Who all at once, became a unity of her own. A woman alone, drowned by the subtle gust of pain from her fleeing love gave her own breath, they say, to pave a holy lineage. The sword in her sternum the centre of a compass, and there blew the stench of her sacrifice to guide her love further adrift. In her death, she did not require the ******* of the son of Rome. His fate swayed between the coasts of the Tyrrhenian, but hers - a lovely and furious force, a collision sharper than the teeth of Scylla, a riot of the elements. Dido did not sacrifice her life for the pilgramage of Aeneas, the ash that was once her skin returned to the soil of her city, the vapour of her spirit entwined within the winds. And although her very being burnt in glimpses of orange and red, I like to think that her soul swam besides the vessel of her downfall. Not to forever be beside the man of her enticement, but to surpass the will of fate and find herself in the sway of the waves. I like to think that as she overtook the man and his crew, into the open arms of beauty and possibility, knowing the hope the adventure that awaited her, she knew the power of a city could not be contained within the shell of a man.