Phryne Ii

Greece you are waiting for me. With white speechless marbles within the August heat. With sullen and loveless areopagites carving my name on sea-shells. Hypereides, you liar. Praxiteles, oh so blind. You Xenocrates, son of the *****. And me that I was thought I would return bearing banners to rebuild your Thebes. A roar under the earth. Ashes in the wind. Athens rises in the sky and charges against me. Why should I be afraid? Why should I run for a shelter? No! I don’t want you to cover my eyes. I want to see the terror in yours, when after the execution you’ll find me at the exit, waiting for you with a molotov cocktail in my hands.