Akropolis
Beneath a silver moon; in ancient days of Greece, once raised were temples, praising old and aged gods of Olympia.Raising these shrines in the light of Luna; Dionysus, called Bacchus of aged roman times, and yet recalled, let his wine flow upon those lands, Hermes with secrets would journey to men, revealing ancient beauty which only the gods knew, and at times would pour upon the sleeping children.
And through secret times, sacrifices were made, to gods only longing for the worship of men; for this was the only force sustaining their existence.
And beneath crystalline rivers, flowing through the dreamlike groves of olive stood the silent mass of men, holding ceremonies which no man of modern times recalls.
The gods, content, would bless these lands; so that prosperity ruled, and spring, brought joy and wonder so the children could play upon the solemn heaths beneath a never fading sun.
Though as time went, men wished to tread upon their home upon Olympia, where nectar flowed and nourished them; so, angered, the gods turned
their back upon them, and no more was peace, no more did wonder rule so the children could play, and no more were they blessed with the gift to dream; and the function to create decreased within their treat.
In modern days, all that is left is a temple; a temple of barren bleached marble, amidst the thick mist of smog of modern Athens, lined by columns, which no modern man could craft.
For only dreams evoke inspiration and only gods can bless men with such things; gods no more found, since the time, when Acropolis was raised, and the day, when the gods of Olympia abandoned their ancient home, and departed, for other distant worlds.
Short story by Christos Tsolakidis
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Written on 2008-04-10 at 09:28
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