A shaft of sunlight finally breaks through,
and just barely stretches its fingers to the awakened floor stones.
There's a tension in the air
as the silence watches the stone satyr
awaiting his response.
He sits with heavy-lidded eyes,
a lazy upturn of the mouth at the ends,
underscored by a careless goatee.
Yes, he muses, maybe the moment has come
when once again he shall dance with the wood nymphs
and tease their golden locks with his hands,
when the music shall ring in the sun-addled shallows of the forests
and the wine shall free the spirit.
Maybe the time has come to leave this giant chamber of echoes
this vast resting-place for those who have reconciled themselves
to their mortality,
with the musty smell of millenia of neglect
and the sweet aroma of forgetfulness.
Maybe. If only I were ready to leave.