From Stellar Ephemerides

What’s the point of posing
as hero, when all the joys
need sorrows, like arrows

pointed with poison flying
in all directions or none
at all, for wine’s sake?

To heal oneself from pain
of others becomes unfair:
to shed blood without cause,

from a man never thought
could kill. The power to heal
becomes futile, pointless.

In the end he just takes
the olive wreath to his head
to the ground, the funeral

of an immortal creature,
then embedded to the sky,
never an enough consolation.

Both bowed to this death,
a line draws in tense
pain in their abdomens.

Pointing their gazes upward:
one must leave the stage,
one must live forever.


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