Here is a short tale about seven brothers and what happened to them.
A very long time ago there were seven brother who lived in a village. Over time, one by one, the brothers died, until finally only one was left. Eventually, he also died of old age.
Those who knew the last of the brothers, felt his loss, and those who knew him hardly at all were less touched by his passing. That’s the way it goes. Of course this all happened long after the nine legged horse ran along the ridge just beyond the village, and Farmer Brown’s largest pumpkin hatched into a scarlet peacock that carried off Miss Margery. Well, some villages are like that.
looking at the pieces of rice paper, the fibres twist, turn through threads of memories & dreams, drifting clouds caress sun’s rays & ocean’s sprays, turquoise green spirals up-downward pale confused awakening knowledge seeping through roots of time-generation’s call; emerging from mist memory – Lost Lemuria, some call Mu, Pan-Pacifica Zealandia, it calls out of fable reveries like childhood fancies fabricated in endless summer’s haze of greenflowerfragrancefolds-tornleafthornbarktears; kitten string play paws tangle-unwind mural maps from Lost Lemuria’s walls that sing-weeping for place-things now uncharted – spheres of knowledge etched woven to connect dream, sky, surf impassioned shores with the latitude & longitude of the pieces of ideated engraved equations.
lost continent’s lore
leaves holes in certainty’s stance-
fancy laps at feet
For more fancies see: Atlantean Wall Murals