In the centre of the labyrinth,
dédale, Ariadne’s brother weeps;
his tears fill a pool of grieving for what is lost.
In the hidden place that is no maze,
that has no other path but in or out,
he waits for mother, love, a gentle voice.
He waits and weeps, but only Ariadne’s laughter
reaches along the sinuous path,
and the sharp clash of her lover’s arms, bronze on bronze.
The world is full of lies, he knows and false faces.
His gentle mother reviled, his father dead,
his sister a stranger with wild bloody eyes.
Asterion weeps, and the world makes its way
with heavy tread to the centre of the spiral,
to winkle him out with a pin.