Each inch of earth a threshold, another step, another dream. Behind a scrim bleached with their blood reverent animals stalk: lion and boar, man-eating mares, thousands of ravaging birds, the Hydra with multi-warheads waiting for the celebrants to disappear with their apparition of this marginal sight.

Looked at from the future: Gathered before a Hero whose strength gives peaceful pretensions the stigma of a bloody nose, to whom Victory is cognate to death's cold stare running one end of Hell to the Other.


Pilgrims bathe in a vision of sunset. Their children hold santos of a hi-tech god in a land that double-crosses itself. In what have we come to believe? A camera snaps, a rocket flies a mechanical bird of prey, steaming tail streaking to its own interception, ground radar out, ghost-horses carry it across the sky.


Sirocco winds sharpen themselves on flanges of the Hero's weakening flanks
standing guard with his nose in the air.