Inspired by of Montreal's Authentic Pyrrhic Remission
Which caused my fascination with a different Pyrrhus, From Virgil's Aeneid:
There at the very edge of the front gates springs Pyrrhus, son of Achilles, prancing in arms, aflash in his shimmering brazen sheath like a snake buried the whole winter long under frozen turf, swollen to bursting, fed full on poisonous weeds and now it springs into light, sloughing its old skin to glisten sleek in its newfound youth, its back slithering, coiling, its proud chest rearing high to the sun, its triple tongue flickering through its fangs.
No comments:
Post a Comment