Σίβνλλα τί ϴέλεις;
respondebat illa: άποϴανεΐν ϴέλω
The Cumaean Sibyl is on my mind tonight, not Michelangelo's version from the Sistine Chapel with bulging muscles and book open. No, this one is the gate opener, oak leaf prophet, wheel whisperer among the fumes, the forge, and she is no longer at Cumae with Vesuvius resting in the distance. She doesn't even speak the language anymore. Her last oak leaf broke as it flew, so only the words θέλω ἀντιφεύγω could be seen before it floated off on the water. Two thousand years later, she is voice only and is here in an oak savanna under a prairie sky. I listen to her when I can and copy her works to pawn off as my own.
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