By Brian George
To the Assembly Beyond Space the Greek ambassadors wore rags. They carried all of their belongings with them. They diagramed the precession of the equinox in the sand, and played on lyres made out of turtle shells. Years of wandering between dimensions had left them hungry for Omphalos. A bird with a key had opened a few hermetically sealed ears. "Backward, go to what you love. The 12 thank you. Act now for the greater good." From a cloud Pythagoras would educate Phoenicia. Mantric ratios could not encompass slang.
Flags fluttered on the topless tower. Smoke puffs, in concentric rings, from the Age of Iron drifted up. Disturbing the transparency of the 1 unbroken sphere, nostalgia tugged at the great heart of Pythagoras. Geometry was greater than his soul was inviolate. The perfect should not stay impotent, for long. Just proportions are to be obeyed.
Athena had split the head! Poor demiurge! Uncoiling like a snake, an alternate future flew. The atomic chain reaction shook apart each citadel.
Gnarled olive branches waved on the plateau. Pythagoras was in love—he could not help himself. White boxes dotted the Aegean blue. His mother met his father. There was so much to be done at the turning point of a 5200 year cycle. Glad, he turned his astrolabe towards Earth.
(Illustration: Giorgio de Chirico)