This morning we visited Delos, birthplace of Apollo, a ruin, a remembrance of the splendor and perhaps of the glory, of our history, of our very roots. We moved among the rocks of schist, sandstone and marble, they cast soft shadows opposite the low sun and reflected barely heard whispers from a distant past, the murmuring of priest or oracle, the pleas of distraught wife or mother. Deep within the site, one could become lost within a labyrinth of passages and at each corner anticipate an ancient garbed in long white robe.
It rained last night, for the first time in months. The air was fresh and sweet. The garden snails were active, in their thousands, seeking mates, creating orgies of egalitarian participation, these hermaphrodites, each impregnating and becoming pregnant, but doomed to the pots of people eagerly collecting them on this one day of the year. The ants too were stimulated to their mating flights, huge females and tiny males, intent on the future, as well as their own selfish present. But most visible were the reptiles, prehistoric rulers of the earth, too soon supplanted by primitive mammals, the forefathers of our clan.
Delos was not just a memory, but a home and a village. Here there were hundreds of agama lizards that worshipped the sun, the light and the heat of Apollo. Everywhere they basked in the warmth and struggled against each other for the best situations. They were incredibly agile and wary, lightly springing from stone to stone -- these were now the attendants of the shrine. And what of the serpent with the beautiful skin, the nose-horned viper, most venomous of European snakes? As I sat on the cool stones and gazed upon its subtle glory I thought I heard a small, soft voice from near my feet utter a prayer and speak a song to the sun.
