The monument of the triumphant death is bleeding.Bronze faith, writhing eyes, mouths agape, wondering when they will serve the stars: could we know what they renounce? Sleepless flags, tricolors and borders, bordering now and the ancient, we glide upon their waving, ceaselessly seeing, un-seeing the silence of stone and springs inscribed.And they wave, they wave where the eight spirits of wind command.Only the peering tongue ignores them, splintered bravery mocking the shallow colours: should we pray to him and erect temples to his defiance? The gods are divine for they are subject to no Fate.Is that stone tease not the same? Ah there is so much to believe in, so much battling for our devotion.Such jealousy! We cannot adore one truth whilst dreaming of one beauty, we must belong solely to one divinity! Is this where trees come of age, in this Palatial air? Maybe, for the vines swimming in the crack wet with humidity watch them grow, watch them sway.And time refuses to repent.
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