Acropolis

The soft quem quam will be Scops the Owl conjugation of nouns, a line of enquiry, powdery stubble of the socratic prison laurels crack like parchments in the wind. who walks here in the violet dust at night by the tower of the winds and water-clocks? tapers smoke upon open coffins surely the shattered pitchers must one day revive in the gush of marble breathing up? call again softly, and again. the fresh spring empties like a vein no children spit on their reflected faces but from the blazing souk below the passive smells bread urine cooking printing-ink will tell you what the sullen races think and among the tombs gnawing of mandolines confounding sleep with carnage where strangers arrive like sleepy gods dismount at nightfall at desolate inns.