OVIDAMONG THE SCYTHIANS

OVIDAMONG THE SCYTHIANS

Nothing will ever change. The light of the last sunset touches the highest point of the hill. Wisps of mist line the valley with blue shadows. Dead grey waters mirror his flat despair. He sinks onto the ground. His last metamorphoses, this grand desolation complete, night, forever about to fall, darkens the mental landscape, mutes the colours of an evening which can never be accomplished. The great black mare, a shadow among shadows, home-bound or halted, waits: Will share

always these last sharp comforting moments, share the mild eternal exile of paint.