~Spoken by Hypatia of Alexandria
our doors were open.
Our great light shone, compelled.
In ten great halls with marble walls
we spoke of stars and numbers,
of water, stone, and thought.
They called me August Mistress,
The Living Grace of Speech,
but no Grace or speech sufficed.
The rabble dragged me through the streets,
butchered me in the church.
They burned my bones.
My shining city–
her light did not
And still, within your gates, barbarians.
They shout among the rabble in the streets;
trample the rubble in your streets.
They shoot the rebels, crush the revels.
Great Pan is dead;
the Muses mourn.
in long white halls,
in forests green,
in scraps of mind,
we walk. In
the piles of stones
the dying leaves.