The Ace of Cups and the King of Wands
stand on the banks of the river
by the City of the Unreal.

Sounds of the city echo in the space between them —
sounds of symphonies and of birds twittering.

Sublime skyline.
Desolate road.

Its citizens wake in catharsis as dawn approaches,
rising above the valley near the city.

The Sibyl speaks:

"Wade not into the depths of the river,
lest you join the flow of the water.
Do not resist its path.
The river goes where it pleases.
It does not abide by interruptions."

Yea, that which is hidden in the waters of the planet
may not be known to the sons and daughters of the Five of Wands,
nor by the machine-makers,
the Ace of Cups,
or the King himself.

It is neither Christ,
nor a representative thereof,
that may know the meaning of the waves
or the tongue of the rays of the stars.

The formlessness of these things
is rendered in the City of the Unreal,
in the reflection of their fragmentation
by windows or glass.

Shattered shards of bottles and lenses
in the belly of the undercity
know more than we —
they are the keepers of the Sibyl's truths.

The cats wandering the city's paths at dusk
speak to each other in the language of the valley of the soothsayer.
They purr and hiss and meow.

Meow meow.
Scratch scratch.
Meow meow.

Lovers and a Warning