“How should it be fair that in order to learn the unspeakable, I have to sacrifice my own voice?”
“In order to know the unknown, you must pay your debt.”
“What does it matter, if I am concealed of my words? Nothing is right and nothing is wrong. If knowing does not change anything, why know at all?”
“Like a river does it creeps, like a river does it flows. Years would pass and people change, but the true beauty of a prophecy never dies.”
Down away from the faraway mountains, where the myths have faltered and the ancient islands are long forgotten, Cassandra lives in the house of that ancient sun-god, banished and unhappy is she, that she continues to live among the long abandoned. Each morning does she awakes, in the house where his followers had all his love but she, as the prime servant of the temple she runs the house.
As the song of the nightingale falters she arose with the sun. With the pouring sunlight she cleanse the room, little by little she refilled the well.
Looking up from her early work, she read the sun and continued the routine. First the dust among the alters, then a meal for the followers. When the glamourous carriage has arisen from the mountains, she sat beside, and waited for the words. Songs that sung and life that flows, all the beauty would she knows. With mellow sunlight do they pour, little by little they entered her heart.
Anger, despair, power, and wars, all the chaos did she hear. Death takes life and life runs death. Father devours the heir, and children murder their spouse. Those who see them do not know, those who know them do not speak, and those who speak them do not see.
Sitting beside the empty amphora, she remembered Hestia, how the sand of life had left her, how she was forgotten by the gods, and how she died. She would never understand why the fair haired goddess would give up her immortal life for the love of the hearth.
Lifting up her white-dyed skirt, she cleansed the empty amphora at a nearby river. Clear water flowed on shallow grass, a swallow glided down and sent her a gift, it was a little leaf of forget-me-not. She held the petals in her hand, lifted up her fair long arms, and placed it beside her pearl-like ear.
Hereby them all, Cassandra listens. With all the screams and all the sorrow, the silent grass had heard them all. With gentle care it swayed with the breeze, embraced their life, and cleansed her soul. How should it care? Silent and still as it always is, bringing comfort to all souls.
Cassandra, Cassandra, you are still young.
Take the hearth and feel the pain, learn the silence of the house.
Cassandra smiled, and raised her eyes. Years have passed and the stars have fallen. Nothing matters but the words of life. Lifting up her grasping fingers, little by little the sand returns. Like a river does it creeps, like a river does it flows. Years do pass and people change, but the true beauty of a prophecy never dies.