Gods, I’ve been forsaken!
I – formerly blessed by the sun –
Cry out to you, you who leave
My words unheard.
Once a daughter to kings, I wait
Inside an indiscernible prison
For the fall of my beloved city.
I predicted this, my people, but
I cannot blame you, my people
I spurned the sun, burned my fate
And now no one will heed me.
They tell me I am
beautiful, I am brilliant, I am
insane.
They tell me
To leave the future to kings.
I spoke to you, my people
The contents of the horse
I spoke to you, my people
When we shall catch our demise
With axe and fire, I rush,
Only to face the barrage of disbelief
I hear them laughing, my people
Those who will carve their place
Where you once stood
But you will not listen.

i understand the Greeks
When they wrote of boys
turning to men as
“in the flush of their strength”.
as if the tides of youth,
had burst it’s banks
flooding childhood, like the Mycenae
against Troy.

Sitting still upon the throne,
Beauty never fades away,
But the utter dark can leave a mark,
That calls chaos back to play.

Rotting one, the one below,
reflects the unseen side of glowing,
And the eternal snake is ever awake,
On the burnt side of that coin.

We know the price of death so far,
As the ferry man is rowing,
But not as much as a glimpse to nature of simpler things
The future, and the price of knowing.

Brother, our young summers held us in a long chain like the phalanx of bronzed soldiers forward flung,
And the lion was skinned and hung out to dry like the sunned-fur of the beach at Marathon.
Brother, help me to dream again.

Brother, our yellowed days shook us like serried Hoplites of an atomic age,
Shoulder to shoulder, friction rubbed, all ranks split from the fissioned-flanks.
Brother, help me to dream again.

Storm-footed Titans of heat, dust, and irradiated wind pry from a ruptured Tartarus,
The flanks are an open pulse; the scorch-song thirsts for its sea-cooling to stone.
Brother, the lion lives that wears your skull around its mane.

Brother, dream of me again, of Persian arrows and lances,
And my fallen eyes instead of yours pouring in
With a sea of lavender water and mists
And summers of once-were.

Πόλη μου μικρή, μεγάλη, φουρτουνιασμένη,
πότε με βρίσκεις στους δρόμους σου
σ'ένα παγκάκι αδειανό,
σ'ένα παλιό καράβι.
Κι άλλοτε σε δρόμους που ανεβαίνουν, σε μαγαζάκια και στροφές,
και χθες σε δρόμο που κατέβαινε και κατρακυλούσαν φύλλα, φωνές.

Πόλη μου,
πότε με χάνεις σε σκέψεις παλιές.
Σε δρόμους με ψάχνεις, μα είναι ξένοι,
παρελθοντικοί.
Και χάνεις, όλο και χάνεις.
Χάνεις και πάλι αυτή την παρτίδα,
όσο κι αν με μαγεύουν τα χάδια και τα ταξίδια,
είμαι δοσμένη αλλού.

Πόλη μου, κρύα, ζεστή, παραμυθένια,
με ζεσταίνουν οι άνθρωποι σου,
μα να πάλι, με το πρώτο κρύο
νοσταλγώ τους ανθρώπους μου.
Με ψάχνεις κι εγώ κοιτάω από την άλλη.
Ψάχνω την κλεμμένη μου καρδιά
όσο μακριά κι αν είναι,
όσο κι αν ο καιρός θρυμματίζει μνήμες,
θολώνει ματιές.
Ψάχνω.

Πόλη μου,
εσύ η αιτία.
Η αιτία του πόνου μου
κι η αιτία της χαράς μου,
ο λόγος που αγαπάω ακόμα πιο πολύ,
ο λόγος που κάθε αγκαλιά κρατάει με τους καιρούς,
-τόσο-
για να ζεσταίνει τους άχαρους χειμώνες σου.

A voice. No a breeze, whirling a vibe,
ping,
signal down my left-ear hole

gap - do I follow this sprite, a whispt hiss,
this way,

come and see.
Here men invented history, the written story tell of
piles of cities on cities, where all the books was boined.

why did men do that? I listen to me ask,

ology was invented here,
ology-gnosis mist interp o'sin,
that started here, the corrosion
on the contact points between the Sybils and home-base,
Storytellers forgot the melody. The mason's lost the knack.

Written words, those froze the gods in place and
anointed the roles,
in order of importance to the common weal and woe.

--Anachron active.
There are ever resistors to restoration of the flow.
Now is part of ever, you know,
so as Three-channel-era professors seem today,
so were Oral
Storytellers from the initiate class,
doing their duty for the old school ways,
used to
make a child sacred, offer it, the sacred thing,
where
death is symbolic, the heart is taken, with the mind,

a boy or a girl is taken from all reality, and offered, as a living heart and mind,
and gut,
offered
Sacri-ficed, arti-****-of-truth-to-be made knower of things others cannot handle,

---- snake kachina dances past my per-ipher phor phun...
--- loss of focus, that's
the crime of buying what only initiated and locked-in magi
are ever allowed to know, by God, say the words written

in script captured from the scribes who came from Phoenica,
as
testified by the Sybil in throes of ecstacy, you will never know...

so, make it worth my while, the seer of such things says
to the widowed mother
whose hoplite husband fell off a cliff running from Thermopylae.

I'll get your kid in the school of the prophets, through the door
of dark and mysterious learning,
requiring a substantial League of Delphi guar-ohnteed low usery,
standard "borrower is servant to the lender", fifty years period.

--Anachron off.
Listen.
Do they have this in 2019? Timeslip. It's on Youtube, there's
a blockchain on the door, though,
nothing is sacred any more
than before.
It's time the whole story hidden where ideas ignored in idle words
have been received,
be told.
Erasmus, looks up, try this, he says.

Ha, ala Textus Receptus, Magustory of Blowhards and Slowbellies.

Some future, alls I got to say. This is some future we all imagined,

is there an option? Maybe, as in, whose may overides mine?

There is a whole story, I learn, as I wander through the ruins...

Rabbi, where do you live?
He saw me, calling from the ruins, he winked and said again,
Come and see.