Nostalgia Poems

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Type: Memento
Obtainable: Story Progression

A collection of poems by Asterion given to The Master in Minotaur Hotel (Visual Novel).

Content[edit | edit source]

Poems Asterion shared with you.

Private hymn to the new master, a stranger:

"Uncertainty of progress! Ah!
ㅤHow sized? In heart, in mind, in soul?
ㅤWhat bargains and which dealings need
ㅤbe bargained, learned, relented now?
Oh fallows left so blank at whim!
ㅤPlease gentle be, oh gods of men
ㅤand slaves. Grant strength to a shield
ㅤso prized and gilded: used: esteemed...
Oh 'trust' enforcéd rigidly!
ㅤTo use, of course, but polish and keep
ㅤas well. Responsibility
ㅤhe'll own, like me, I hope (with pride?).
What wisdom, decade bound, shall now
ㅤthis century-locked life hold rein?"

Ode to Hades, and the creation of mastic trees and dittany bushes in the garden:

"At scent of mastic in the wind
my nostrils flare-- that sharpest musk
awakens every bone. But where
the tender flesh of dittany find?
Its hairy leaves enlivening--
the asphodels, they brush my cheek--
The drooping stalks of white haired herbs
of hefty leaves do snake between
my fingers. Grow. Take root. Take breath.
At hand, no savour, spices not,
yet sticky drips arise
at will from craggy hardened flesh
of aged trees-- refreshing all
who pass, at least all who know
this nourishment your sap holds forth,
that nourishment from jade-like leaves,
amongst the knee-deep asphodels.

The thorny gum of myrrh, oh Lord
of Many, grows and bows to shade
your idol, but around these fields
left quiet by the master, you
allow the brutish auroch laze.
Allow him, you, the scents of his soul,
nostalgia-laden, craves and longs.
My thanks and praise lay at your feet."

Ode to the sounds of machines:

"In the dry nights of winter
on the roof of this exile
there's a noise that the wind brings,
just the faintest of sounds-- blown
from a universe out there.
What makes Daidalos now?

Do machines heav'nly wend swift
down the roads, cross the tracks set
as is shown in the books brought
out to here of the gears, wires
and the pulleys, mechanics,
run so loud and so crowded
that in this, even this, place
one can hear all the chugging,
although faintly, of that wide
busy world? One can wonder.

One can wonder indeed, locked
by the shackles of time, freed
by imagining what moves
past the valley with power
(kind Hephaistos has blessed you)
and unstoppable grace."


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