A lyre waits in silence.The silence waits for the lyre's melody.It's strings are hour hands, any hand of the sun's skin that plays them would break them loose from the Fates.Only a kiss from lips of the half-moon could awaken their harmonies.
The lyre waits in a precious yard, bordered by promises of oranges and beds of sleeping poppies.The yard, square and central, is surrounded by marble columns on whose bottom are engraved the words,
"Maximum Patience to the Children of Providence."
Their white marble is as clear as shallow sea in spring, and their spiralling designs is like a life chasing itself.
Above the columns are elaborate arches, whose thin, elegant, harshness remind one of Lucifer at the moment of his conversion.Red and white tiles run through them; alternating like the Euphrates and the Tigris rushing towards Eden.
Immediately surrounding the mute lyre, are four free standing coloumns of limestone.On top of them sit the Four Guardians of Memory: Memory of Love, Memory of Nights, Memory of Pride, Memory of Illictness.All sit, contemplative, waiting for the lyre's melodeis so they could sing their verses.What passing cloud will bring the end of silence?
"Everything is ready,
Nothing can be done:
The heart is a feast
Of frenzied anticipation."
So laments the Chimera, waiting to leap into tomorrow.It awaits the lyre's emotions to know what face to give the dawnless morrow.With what eyes shall tomorrow look at us now: A serpent's? A tiger's? A bear's? an eel's? Alas it cannot be known!
Oh lips of the half-moon, waists entwined with the new wine, Promiser with the nightingale's voice: come and play the lyre as only you know how.Give to it, it's melodies of abracadabric waves and wistful gales, so that all my life may be resurrected in this palace os shared gods.
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