I met Venus in Brockwell Park,
the air was calm, sweet as prophecy.
A book lay in my hand—
The Hammer of Witches.
She passed, her voice a soft enchantment:
“That book looks interesting—what is its name?”
I placed it in her hands.
Her eyes lingered. Intriguing…
We sat beneath the English Oak.
She asked if I believed in witchcraft.
I smiled—I read mysteries,
because reality hides there.
Her lips curved—then maybe I am a witch too.
We both laughed, shadows dancing.
Then her voice lowered:
If I tell you who I am,
perhaps you will run.
She whispered—I am Venus.
Born of Uranus, from Saturn’s blade.
Her words carved the air with sorrow.
Yet when I met her gaze,
our souls remembered.
I told her, I am Apollo,
the god of light and music.
Silence deepened—
our eyes locked, and worlds collapsed.
No flesh, only mind,
a burning union of ancient fire.
We flew through the sky of the soul,
witch and god entwined.
And when the vision ended,
only one truth remained:
When you see Venus,
you will see Apollo—
for in the end, we are one flame,
forever burning in exile.