Bury the Muse

It took place in the ancient Greek period and established the equal status of women and men. Added some fiction for plot needs If there are any mistakes, thank you for your criticism and corrections. Homer sang of Crete— That fertile island surrounded by grape-purple waters, Ninety cities were scattered like pearls, The languages of all living beings intersect here, and the bloodlines of the gods take root here. My life is only thirty-four years: Fourteen years dedicated to the glory and dust of the Acropolis, Eleven years passed under the scorching sun of Jerusalem, For the last nine years, it sank to the sound of the waves in Crete. Before the gold of Mycenae illuminated mainland Greece, In the labyrinth of Knossos, the bulls of Minos were already roaring. Legend has it that the first cry of Zeus shook the olive blossoms on the island. And my teacher Diona was born in this land of gods. Later, the iron hooves of the Dorians crushed the pottery pots and murals, Gortin's stele replaced the Dance Hall at Knossos. 440 BC, When the Athenian craftsmen polished the columns of the Parthenon, Gortin's copper chisel is carving the legal provisions on the square's stone monument. That year, Kalliope was born—— Her name is "Bel Canto", the immortal voice of thought. Thirty-three years later, The stone monuments in the same square cast jagged shadows, The noose gnawed into her neck, like the chisel marks carved into the code. And I was counting the camel bells of the caravan in Jerusalem, 1,500 kilometers away, Suddenly a rotten olive choked my throat—— It turns out that she has never been anyone's shadow. It's too late. My Kalliope, Her thoughts are like earthquakes in Crete, An abyss was opened between the stones of the Codex. But her life was shorter than an Athenian summer night, As short as my rusty blade, It was too late to cut off the rope for her. Three years later, Diona in the place where Kalliope was buried, Buried me again. Our tombs are lighter than Gortin's laws, But the roots of the olive tree must remember: Here lie two clusters of flames that refuse to hang low. "Φιλ? σε, Καλλι?πη. ?γαπ? σε, Καλλι?πα." Nine years ago. Under the olive trees. Dorian tongues are like bronze ax chisels, Split the dry winds of Crete: "?γαπ? σε, Θαλ?α" (I love you, Thalia) And the Athenian accent is like a fragment of an ocarina, Falling into the fine waves of the Aegean Sea: "Φιλ? σε, Καλλι?πη" (I adore you, Kalliope) Later, the stele of the code swallowed up all the ending rhymes, Only ?ωρο? (Unripe) and ?ψ? (Too late) After I finished writing, I realized that the Greek letter orz could not be displayed. So be it. Will avoid it in the future Concept: Similar to the fate arranged by ancient Greek tragedy