Here lies love
The flames of the hearth crackle, dancing vivaciously in their newfound openness creating shadows on the face
of the trekker as he sleeps. The moonlight beams on them through the broken concrete ceiling, illuminating the
stone ruins, perfectly preserved till this day. The weathered pillars and remaining facades stand erect, a remnant
of the once great locals of the area. Withered roses and myrtle flowers strewed the parish, ivy covered every
single ruptured wall or pillar that it could find. The profuse branches of the olive tree sway in the gusts of strong
wind, yet still the trekker sleeps soundly on the senile stone stairway. It leads to an elevated mezzanine, a wall
on one side and nowhere else. He sleeps soundly alright, unaware of the arrival.
There is a concrete bust in the middle
of the mezzanine, which lies on a stone pillar. It is of a woman, glancing sideways however with grace. Her
facial features cannot be properly made out, weathered by the years’ worth of winds and gales. Veins of moss
cover her face, her braids, and her toga as if consuming the entire statue or what’s left of it. At the base of the
pillar, there lay fractured tablets and plates all made of clay and stone. But what’s peculiar about this is the one
lying the middle, propped up against the base. Words are etched in Ancient Greek on the fractured piece:
Edó énkeitai i agápi
She appears at twilight from behind the singular wall, taking gradual steps across the platform. An elegant white
chiton is draped over her shoulders, neither transparent nor opaque but translucent. Her auburn hair is tied in
bun with an ivory lace. Despite her being bare footed she walks with dexterity and poise, approaching the
trekker who’s encased in a cocoon of slumber. It is quite amusing that the sudden change in the ambiance
doesn’t wake him up.
Suddenly a fetid fragrance of rosewater and incense can be smelt, light at first but as the woman
comes closer to the trekker, and it becomes even more pungent and overpowering. As she walks, the withered
roses and myrtle flowers at her feet seem to spark to life, blossoming under the moonlight. It seems as though
she radiates life or care, but the eye catches only what it sees. She generates love alright, but that is just a
weapon of choice. For whatever could a goddess radiate if not power.
Aphrodite walks with apparent power and vigor, her eyes full of vexation and anger. But with
power there comes weakness. Although it is concealed beneath a veil of boldness, you can see the frailness. The
all-powerful goddess and her domain has been reduced to this; delicate and weak like china, able to break with
the smallest of force. Well aware of her situation, she intends to do something about this.
The moon has now fully risen, encasing
everything in blankets of silvery haze. The once strong gales of wind are now light warm breezes, the weeds
swaying in their wake. As Aphrodite approaches Neil (our trekker) the swiveling fire in front of him changes its
color, from a bold flames of orange to a dim luster of pink. Finally she has arrived, at the foot of the steps where
Neil is sound asleep.
She circles him like a bird of prey awaiting the write moment. She plays with the braids of her
auburn hair keenly observing Neil’s face as if a prize to be won.
Her lips part and in a soft whisper she says, “Ah Neil! Let’s have some fun shall we?