do flowers bloom if they are not looked at?
do gods kill the summer meadow?
do they go gently into their twilight if there is no one left to wash their feet, except the wind?
little girl, pick the wild camomile, sweetening the god's air. they tell me it is good for wounds and sorrow. put one foot before the other, slowly, through the golden wheat. without faltering, look into his eyes. adorn his dark hair with the small flowers, they are good for the dead, I have heard. do not fear the shadow of the sacred finger. it has crushed the ripe breast of the priestess, but it cannot harm you.
little girl, pick up her thin bones, sweetening the absence of the word. I have been told they will bloom at the end of summer, even if they will not be looked at. tall and proud, they will conquer the field and wipe out the traces. the meadow born out of the god's heel, she will bloom once again, but not as his altar.
little girl, forget my prayer.
I have lied to you.
look at the flower until you go blind.
that is all that will be done.