The broken ruins of Troy continue to fall all around us,
the ashes of fallen empires dust the earth like snow
but who will found Rome? I see no Aeneas among us but perhaps
the ghost of Perpetua lingers still, her voice calling out to us in
anger in between the pillars of our world.
They say the oceans are rising, and I wonder:
Is this Fortuna on her way to drown us? To fill our lungs with her poison until
we become fragile shells of our past selves, loving no one and reverting back?
Is our natural state really war? Yes, Fortuna flows out from our mouths like the rivers of
blood streaming through the streets of Paris, and
what if this is where we find our hero!
What shall we do if she is put forth for the Guillotine?