Fragments

Bent on the placid lake
She lost her image
In the cubic forms of nostalgia.
Her phantasmagoria is timeless,
Like becoming and decay,
Like gravity.

Quills embrace papyrus in time,
At times voices come from a far away altar
Saying: "they should be lynched
Just in the epicentre."
A thousand years...
And more.
No matter how demonic
The skeleton of time.

"Immolate them...
Immolate them...
Just in the epicentre."
Metric is the crime
And accurate are its words...

The black swan lives on,
Her truth is Olympian
And this is another story.