The Acropolis is a stillness of itself. The wind is a memory that is always moving away from us. Tomorrow there will be stones we will carry with us forever, if we can somehow find a place to settle down in. Fallibility is the blood with no seed to cross and no pity for pain to move you. Hunger slices through the wheat fields of invisible tongues.
Silence simmers the scales in the red sky.
There is a womanly air about the way the flowering trees keep facing the eyes of desire. There is a circumference around a world that brings a tired man some symmetry. There is a wide-eyed sky above the maples to keep track of the sugary hills, where a child is not himself, unless he is reborn in the fallow light and allowed to complete the cycle of himself before he is told what he can or can't do on the street. Time is thrown like a wax ball against the stings of yesterday. When seen, the warblers are assumed to be speckled in so many apperceptive patterns.