Aesthetically there is nothing much to see
except itself
a place of rich transgressions, tears
& insanity
It is built on two enigmas
neither decipherable
a sort of mute challenge
•
For once the sea
seems diminished
a light wheezy creaking
like a man rowing across water
Apollo killed the Dragon
& left the corpse
of the gigantic dead beast to rot
•
The atmosphere is so pure
one hears the stroke of his great wings
all other considerations seem confused
Once again the historians
begin to stammer
Is not truth two-sided?
While one is uneasy
•
it is not with a sense of fear
so much as a sense of premonition
One has sudden moments of panic
What is here, one feels
is intact in its purity
The long winding roads leading away
coil like the sacred serpent
towards the centre of the earth
[after Lawrence Durrell, Spirit of Place. Ed. Alan G. Thomas (1969)]
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