he came to the temple.
it found him rather than he had
looked for it, an ancient and secret
place caved under pine trees.
a voice reached him, her voice,
and her fragrance was in the air.
the wind bringing her essence entered his soul, he felt longing for her
who would not show herself. she undressed behind a rock to take
her bath, and meditating in holiness she could not see him, not listen to his call, the words of a mortal man could not touch her.
she was the sybil, the oracle, answering questions or not was up to her.
maybe she was an ugly old hag with warts on her nose and legs like
an elephant's , maybe bald and one eyed.
he couldn't know.
but her voice singing to herself made him feel lonelier than before and he wanted to know if she could shed and burn her skin and come out through the curtains as the princess he had always wished to meet, equal to him and his royal blood.
when the sybil noticed his presence she lit a candle to burn his scent.
her language was foreign and came hoarse and broken through a slit in the ceiling.
ask, she said, i am ready.
but he stayed silent from this day until
the end of his life.
he found nothing to ask.
and language made no more sense to him.
outside he undressed, laid down his shield and armor, his sword, his spear, all under the eye of the sky.
silently he embraced a tree, then walked away into the woods.
when he arrived home naked in his court people feared his eyes and laid down their weapons, some laughed with embarrassment, others wanted to kill him.
but he could not be moved to rule nor to speak, a king to himself and not to others. time passed. one day his folk lifted him dead from his throne like a dried chameleon and buried him in the garden.
nobody ever knew what happened.
stories came and were replaced.
he was struck by a dragon, his throat was torn out by a demon, he was captured by a magician and brought home by a raven. people tried to find a sense. there was no sense, and this is what nobody could see, nobody could believe.
