Draped by the flowers of May, you sit perched upon the petals of antiquity, an eternal beacon of hope, subtly guiding men’s eyes from the dark recesses of their hearts to multihued rainbows of possibility.
Born a crimson pearl from a tear drop of sorrow, flowered upon the lips of Thantos, your image flourished on Cimon’s sword as it transposed the rhythm of death into a harmony of tribute: The Periclean Jewel.
An immaculate construction, you are a mecca of beauty that sprouted from Zeus’ head, home to the pilgrims of humanity, your silhouette dusts men’s souls of the primordial stains to which they pay homage.
Quietly, you exist as the tail feathers of a dream waiting to be remembered at first light, silently I hear in the moonlight Eunomia whispering in the wind, mixing songs of hope with cries of despair as she shepherds the tree of civilization.