The fabulous futility of mortality

Hanging from the tree
the maiden weaves
violent and erotic images in her mind.
With her final breath she cries,
“I long for the wine of Dionysos,
and his deliverance!”
Lifeless, her body swings
as in a dance of remorse
while the wind blows and the leaves fall
to the moist, black earth.
One day they will cut the tree down
and make a mask from its wood
to be worn on the midsummer festival
when they light the fires for the Baptizer.

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