Weaving, this thread, so delicate, strong enough to bind ships when entwined, skillful in spinning cocoons that harbor the foremothers still alive within me. On the out side of these ancient walls, once a place of last abode, the passage is a reversed endeavor: in the moonless night, amidst the presence of other ancient stones, as bones, generators of new life, the ancestral memory ruptures, transforms, enabling a different becoming, another possible story for those who were and those who are.
The mares that carries me as far as longing can reach rode on, once they had come and fetched me onto the legendary road of the divinity that carries the man who knows through the vast and dark unknown. And on I was carried as the mares, aware just where to go, kept carrying me straining at the chariot; and young women led the way. And the axle in the hubs let out the sound of a pipe blazing from the pressure of the two well-rounded wheels At either side, as they rapidly led on: young women, girls, daughters of the Sun who had left the Mansions of the Night for the light and pushed back the veils from their faces with their hands. On Nature Parmenides