Speared by the trident of the sun
on the hill overlooking Athens
the beast’s heart grows faint
The smell of charred bodies and wood
ancient and still as the rocks
weighs on the senses
The blood spangles
each drop mirroring
earth, sky and sea, and
the victor, legs akimbo
The hunger for the forest
equalled by the one of,
ravenous in its devouring of time ,
gorges up on the lives
lying there, standing there
never sated, it seems
The beast’s vitreous eyes
a glow of melancholy and ire
the spectacular light in between
flickers like a moth’s wings
set afire on a torch
That very same flame which set
the hill overlooking Athens
ablaze like a thousand suns.
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