alas Lost Lemuria, that continent at the edge of memory’s ocean – fancies of youth sailing towards adventures unimagined, monsters to be vanquished & knowledge to be earned, tears to be gathered, shadows to be dispersed, yet greenmantle-cloud daisies dance & chant-sing of things lost along the way to certainty – old men pine for what was dropped along the path to independence & weary wisdom’s wandering gaze – see how the maps on these walls are now covered in indecipherable glyphs, the pieces of ideated engraved equations calculating the space between dream & memory, full of implied meaning, echoed in melodious voices rising up from that continent sitting in the depths of those long ago breezes that once brushed a boyish brow – alas Lost Lemuria……
dragon ships flying
towards ancient white mountains,
does the sun’s eye shine there still ?
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.