Pheia, Aksum, Cappadocia and the Mauryas

The wind doesn’t tell me anything.
Doesn’t whisper in my ears, tales of the distant past.
Doesn’t fill my heart with the strumming of a thousand celestial harps.
The wind confuses me.
The dust sheathes my vision.

The dust in my eye might be from the fairy-chimneys of distant Cappadocia
Or, from the pillars of ancient Pheia.
Could it have chipped off from the obelisks of Aksum,
Or, from the amulet of the Mauryan nymph?

How, with closed eyes we can see what we can’t when they are gaping so wide,
Wide enough to engulf every little grain of hope in this world.
And, hope, will forever be an elusive bird fabricating its migration pattern.

My vision clears up.
I splash water in my eyes.
It confuses me,
Sheathes my vision.
Is it from…?

Intuitions are sent out in a little parchment tied to the left foot of the elusive bird.
It is just water from the pipeline.
“The bird will one day reveal its migration pattern”, says another bird.