And into another room and another room and room and room and room, all the corridors, we poured carafes of their blood down our throats. Then the final room we stood in, with still-open windows, untouched, illuminate. We wanted to inhabit the light and be inhabited by it. Our fingers knew the ritual.
“Fairer than Enna’s field when Ceres sows
The stars of hyacinth and puts off grief,
Fairer than petals on May morning blown
Through apple-orchards where the sun hath shed
His brighter petals down to make them fair;
Fairer than these the Poppy-crowned One flees,
And Joy goes weeping in her scarlet train.”
Ezra Pound | “Canzon: The Yearly Slain”