Pantheon of the Gods (1): Apollo

A single tear rolled down the corner of my eye, ran down the shaft of my nose, and dropped on the granite rock. It instantly hardened, became as solid as the rock it fell on. I dried my face with the back of my hands and stared at the circle of lands, that lay around me. Three granite stones formed a small pyramid, the largest at the bottom, the smallest on the top, droplets of stiffened tears. The peak was now actually full of small granite toy pyramids, scattered around, modern devotions of tourists drawn to the beach bars of Mykonos, finding a refuge away from their boredom, to leave landmarks, obelisks erected by anonymous visitors who are compelled to make a mark, expressing their desires, unknown to themselves, a moment of self perception, the reflection hidden in a monument of themselves, without epithet, but carved out of the yearning to be famous, driven by an indistinct want to matter, to find purpose, to give meaning to their hopeless lives, from which they escaped, all these navels of their pity worlds, dropped like scat, nameless, mute cries, because they did not know themselves, and this is why I cry. The granite pebbles formed a sort of moon landscape, reminding me of Selene, my fair sister, rising in the sky the seventh and the twentieth. The heat was scourging, the land was dry, the wind here on top was a welcome relief from the sun, blowing in my face, my eyes, soothing, cooler than in the shade. Below me the sacred lake with the sixteen guarding lions of white marble, white like the moon, elegant like Selene, oh sacred light, beauty unseen by the eye, embrace me, veil me with your cover, rock me like a child, from pole to pole, along the heavenly spheres.