The pilgrim, the sorceress, the ruler,
the merchant and the adventurer are
within the gates of the grand palace
of the double axe, endlessly circling
its corridors breathing in the cool air:
it is a place to rest. But they are restless,
amid rocks aglow with mystic power.
They are alone, each is lost separately.
There, they all caught an early glimpse of
the spiritual bull. Now they are wandering
inside the stone labyrinth in absent search
of a sign of the animal’s tail, but once again
they are back to the gate, blind to each other’s
presence. As ghosts, they haunt the high halls
of the entombed ox-palace where white river
lilies wave hazily at the sleeping mountain.
Their life has been a short meteoric tumble
along the forever resting steppes. Yet it has
seen murder from a Venetian roof-top, and
has met the devil voices on an Indian wall.
Now they are caught up in delusion: pride,
power, divine right, pleasure and delight.
They are oblivious, as forgotten deserts,
as ocean bottom feeders. This is Knossos.