Sybil, by J. W. Cassandra, a new poem of me. I did nor placed it yet in any of volumes. I chose the legend that tells of the Sybil of Cumae, whose books the king, Tarquinius Superbus (died 495 BC), refused to pay, since he found them expensive, so he did not payed the price. Than the prophetess threw to the flames her books, at last remained only 3 of the 9, when the king thought it would be better to pay the original wage. According to the legend, the 3 remained books were hidden and guarded in the cellars of the Temple of the Capitolium. I wrote my poem in behalf of the prophetess, my version a bit differs of the original legend. I share it both in English and Hungarian. The illustration depicts the Delphic Sybil, painting by Michelangelo, Sixtus Chapel, from a public domain. I hope you will find my poem interesting. It was a huge work to render it in English.
Sybil, by J. W. Cassandra, a new poem of me. I did nor placed it yet in any of volumes. I chose the legend that tells of the Sybil of Cumae, whose books the king, Tarquinius Superbus (died 495 BC), refused to pay, since he found them expensive, so he did not payed the price. Than the prophetess threw to the flames her books, at last remained only 3 of the 9, when the king thought it would be better to pay the original wage. According to the legend, the 3 remained books were hidden and guarded in the cellars of the Temple of the Capitolium. I wrote my poem in behalf of the prophetess, my version a bit differs of the original legend. I share it both in English and Hungarian. The illustration depicts the Delphic Sybil, painting by Michelangelo, Sixtus Chapel, from a public domain. I hope you will find my poem interesting. It was a huge work to render it in English.
they say that the fate of nations turns on an eyelash…
Now that the stripes in our skies Are admittedly composed of chemicals…
What is it we’ve been waging war upon? I want more information on this thug We’ve all been beating mercilessly on Somebody please inform me: What’s a drug?…
Here comes the sun!…
“Are we there yet?”…
From the days of yore, Students their teachers ask How long ’twill be before They so serenely bask…
even the toothed plastic spout of its bottle is a wonder…
… will not know the truth…
Every thought may be a blessing Every action graceful be Every single step be made in Gratitude for mobility…
… My bet is, as his habit is, He’ll let her have her way — See such quality enslaved Sadder than I can say
Did we but gaze upon each daily gift With something close to its deserved respect Allow it — glorious! — our hearts to lift A loftier perspective we’d elect…
