You shall create beauty not to excite the sensesbut to give sustenance to the soul.

I am Cassandra—she who, without asking,understood it all and still came to her fate,I, Cassandra, full of visions,who sees her own death without turning away,and hears in the night the day that follows.

Already we mistrust wakefulness;if we are dreaming, then let us dream,until our dream convinces us.

Because she—you hear her—she's calling,and is always going to call, and it's betterboth of us die by the dagger without anyoneseeing us, Orestes, and die a fit death.

I, Electra, fingering my garmentsand my face, for in hours I was changed.Now I am merely one who has killed.

Like cider and aged wine I was desired,desired like the sheer blue cascadethat dazzles the eyes of the thirsty.

Everyone left and we have remainedon a path that goes on without us.

This salt mist blots out everythingthat comforts and speaks to the traveler:roads, bridges, towns, trees.There's no face I might see and know,only the mist whose insistent handruns over our faces and flanks.

I don't want to know, but I would liketo know it all from your own mouth,how she fell, what she said when she screamedand whether she cursed or blessed you.