VICIOUS CYCLE
- Jul 17
- 1 min read
By Synodinos
Cassias and geraniums crept through the window shutters.
Apparently, they too seek the comfort of home.
Yet in this dark, sunless lair, dawn never sweetens the day.
Two drinkers grew drunk again, struck by misery.
And those who know how to grieve speak no laments.
Rebels and Don Quixotes battered the village from end to end.
Festivals, songs, revelries travel from afar, where feasts are set,
forgetting that only yesterday someone tightened their reins.
Darkness, mist, clouds drew the curtain by chance.
All yearn for a starry sky to rescue them from suffocation.
When no one remains to instruct you, ensure a decisive death is preordained.
Models and flawed idols showed a path that slowly bent;
those who followed it were lost.
Applause, shouts, and celebrations—now faintly comical—cleared the air.
Hermits in the desert formed alliances, claiming belonging.
And like the Ouroboros, everything ends, only to begin again.