You may read here the first 5 pages of the manuscript "Penthesilea", to be published soon!
In a dark full of madness, the fury of wandering ghosts and pasts, a vague person wave along the winds of the wild winding forest. She whispered softly the women's voice of Icamiabas. The ladies who rode wild horses, amidst the river's sweating borders, jumping along the rowing boats and flinging arrows into the rabbling meaningless ordinary youth. Bare-footed they arrested men and pitched them into remote beaches around the island of Marajó, where they would take the form again of a feminine spirit, bearing nothing but their muiraquitãs. The small jade amulet revealed their only breast left, for they fiercely cut the other, to enroll in their bow limb and string, garnishing and togging up their holsters and quivers. There, on the first midnight of a full moon, the dream of every men became true, but only after forced to the humid ground of copula by the strong hand of an Amazon, they knew their only and ineluctable fate was death. And still, men abandoned themselves in their hands. There we know by now those flying female demons long cultivated habits far further we acknowledge. As the indigenous warrior celebrated victory at war after reading the signs of fire, also the lost people on the Hymalayan chain counted stars orbits and practiced capnomancy every harvest. As the peoples later rebelled in mutiny against empires, also by telegenesis southern insurrections amalgamated fates and souls, both in north and south spheres, both in east and west angles, making knots by night: while one lived, the other dreamed their thought. And in parallels full of synchronicity, Icamiabas claimed from the inner pyloric gut of their spilled spleen, their righteous scream, that war came upon those men who refused to proportionate the loot, who refused to reckon their matched forces. A waste land of dust emerge from blood soaked among corpses, and bleak horsemen. But Icamiabas still danced, unconsentfully, unconsciously… Until the paramount purpose of myth was ultimately reached, they danced around fire… A subtle wind along the plains of eastern waters whistled. They raised by conjuration henceforth, amid the rests of dead kings the intimate antipode of men, the huge, the ferocious female: Penthesilea….
In an infamous hall, a giant Statue of The Old Warrior, crowned, speak.
"Dare, oh, noxious faerie lady, dare not to speak!"
Penthesilea, on a horse, half-dressed for battle, one breast showing, transparent silk sleeves.
"Never shall I speak, for I am Penthesilea".
Statue. "So say you not, say you what?"
Penthesilea. "I shall fight instead of saying.
I shall think instead of praying.
From these unexpected woods,
Where people say, where people should.
I shall forever stop weeping;
I shall forever start reading
The lost wide lands of nowhere,
The reconditioned places of a soared baird,
Inside the inner cages, we ourselves built;
The sweet briefcases of sorrow's will;
For I shall carry on nothing. Nothing!"
Statue. "So there you go, Penthesilea.
Go and fight for nothing.
Go and find some mocking pal.
For no one else needs a warrior.
What to say? Your Deity be your lawyer."
Penthesilea screams with strong and long voice, wildly.
Penthesilea. "I have no lord to abide! For I am Penthesilea!
Amazon of the lost wild horses! Tamer of the groβest beasts!
What an idiosyncratic useless arrangement of words,
Upon a head you do intend to control me, you giant figure?!
I am Penthesilea!!!"
The statue recoils itself, satisfied with her answer.
Statue. "Yes, you are. In this venue, of going far places
I shall not place you any orders.
Go and live your life! Live your own disorders.
Very well, Penthesilea.
I do am inebriated by your charms.
You do not expect approval from me;
What to say, aloof indeed.
My opinion would make no point.
Since yourself is at your own joint
Of past judgements you ever made…
Penthesilea. "May those judgements be sickness,
For those who prey indifferently
Wrong fisheries in sparkling waters".
Smiling, she leaves the infamous hall and ride away.
Penthesilea. "There is nothing infamous of taking no orders
When they are not placed.
For life is this: living without haste.
Noticing charms, chilling chords of a kind chamber
In which we fall asleep, in our sweet slumber.
Throwing the sharp spear of your own will
To someone lost In terrible thrills!
Shall I rest upon my shield?
Shall I ride to eastern fields?
Let us not think less than act;
Let us not swear bills or pacts.
Freedom is delightful. Children growing fast
To taste this sweet, frightful
Sense of vast, sense of nothing.
There, that lost place, in which creation pay visit
To itself, as the purest of needs".
Calmly while she rides, Penthesilea finds a sweet, gentle young man, cute and fluffy, aside of the road. She points her spear to him, warning not to throw his eyes upon her.
Penthesilea. "Hail! Speak thee!"
Pullus. "Speak I?
Where wast thou, Penthesilea?
Penthesilea. "Waiting for not to come".
Pullus. "Very well, then.
Shall I proceed like any other?"
Commonness is the cloak of the wise".
Pullus. "What to say if slightly strangeness
Otherwise might be punished.
Penthesilea. "No man or women shall ever escape…"
She descends from the female horse, as she makes herself her own dignitary takes off her gloves to shake his hand.
Penthesilea. "Say what you need,
Pullus. "I need you to come by."
Penthesilea. "For I know nothing else as procedure, dear".
Pullus. "Faerie lady will not ask the purposes
Of such a delightful request?"
Pullus. "It is the very purpose of such a journey,
That truth and reason shall be granted
Only to eyes of those who see,
And be denied to ignorant sprees,
'till they have been
Kept in veritable wilderness.
Penthesilea. "So you say, cute man.
I shall warn you, however
I am not as strong as my horse
To carry you on my sweet dreams
As I fight for your wit and truth.
Legends of past victories
Are but legends; for war-torn people
Use to carry hidden pains.
I shall warn you I may not have
The challenging figure
To protect you from darkness
In which those, who ignite
Ignorance, may be lost.
My flame burn slightely,
Timidly, as it has not been fueled.
So I see trouble for both me and you
And no profit in such exercise,
Ill-conceived by men who now
Turn to their urgent issues.
Pullus. "Will memory last, Penthesilea,
So that you may follow what you intended?
So that your falls were so pretended?
So that history will not provide
The abrupt, blatant destiny to those
Who live and laugh by pride?"
Penthesilea."Longer than lost facts ever should.
I will follow you, if done I could.
As the foremost living pact
Is that of an endeavored word.
Let us say, for now, I can offer you
The cane and plommel of my sword".
As they walk his way home, they foresee the horizon of a village among the spikes of cold mountains arranged in half of a circle.
A dart suddenly hits Cute and Pullus. Penthesilea jump in front of Pullus, raise her small half-moon shield, and gets ready to fight. Pullus takes off the dart of his neck, falling and fainting aside.
Penthesilea. "Pigmies! For you is too cute not to be noticed,
And they follow on, unharmed,
Your sweetest tenderness
Being too warm to vanish, Pullus!"
Pullus. "I worry only with my carriage, for it holds lots of treasures
Of an old man's heart, Penthesilea, too dear to be thrown
To such horrid and fearful trembling tiny beasts,
Too afraid, of their own shadows, not to attack!"
Penthesilea. "I can only defend myself and my soul, Pullus.
Your deep, insightful memory sails adrift now!"
Penthesilea tie knots in her horse and slaps it for it to pull his carriage down the hill, as she dodge the darts.
She keeps asking herself why Pullus on hell doesn't he leave, as the pigmies will probably kill him. Penthesilea rage.
Penthesilea. "Darn those pigmies, too deathly not to be realized,
Too small to be caught in their own poisonous nets!
Wee, smallest of men, those who look for their own pride,
Seeking the prize of absolution to the sick acts
Their conscious minds distort, and very willingly, do not forgive!
Attired by nothing more than fresh white paint stripes,
Adorned by scars and pierced by their own spare widgets,
Predate those lonely shepherds who walk peacefully
On the road aside, from the least licantropo's conjuration!
Lacerating the skin of those anointed by the white pigeon,
To throw their raw flesh, as if cattle, to their infants,
To leave their bones for ravens crawling in heart of night!
There I see, the lustrous feathers covering black ravens,
Anxious to dine in open fractures and tore ripped-off muscles!
Eat yourselves, pigmies, feast on your own need to
Listen to sound of poisonous darts flying as if a favor,
As if lonely travelers were at any need of them,
And I will step on your lifeless, wretched skeletons!"
Pullus, squatting, and beating around a bush, hides successfully. Penthesilea runs all over the ground killing such small creatures and leaving their bodies to lustrous black ravens.
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