You will also encounter Shura Field after exile [Greek Mythology]

The poet recites his own poems, and his eyes occasionally flick from the stage to observe the thoughts of the audience.

This time was different. Before the performance, he was visited by a mysterious boy.

His hat and shoes were decorated with wings, but they were not like cheap imitations, and the poet realized at that moment that what appeared before him was a real god.

"Don't acknowledge that god."

This was the will conveyed by the king of the gods, and of course he thought of which of his works he was referring to.

He picked up the manuscript, looked at it, "Do I need to destroy it?"

"Don't you have other entries?"

Hermes sat on the table and looked at the poet's face, "I remember that the king of the gods still likes other works very much. If you are willing to stop the public performance of this work, he is still very happy."

"You know, he's always been ruthless."

"I know," said the poet softly. "He is indeed a tyrant."

"I have participated in wars." The poet raised his eyes, "I have killed and almost been killed, even if you are really a god on Mount Olympus and not the apostle of some tyrant, I would have nothing to say."

He was silent for a while.

"I'll write the third fold, and they're friends again," said the writer. "How's it going, are you satisfied?"

Hermes has been running errands in the world for thousands of years, and he has rarely seen such an arrogant man.

"Actually, to be honest, we all want to see it." Hermes said with a smile, "I don't know whether the King of Gods agrees or not."

"I am not some tyrant's pretender." Hermes took off his hat and showed him the natural fleshy wings on it, "and all the gods need is to admit that since you are willing to write the story of the god shaking hands with Zeus In the end, we didn't have any special needs."

The poet pondered for a while.

"What happens if you admit it?"

"Maybe, I will wear a crown." Hermes briefly dropped an unfamiliar word.

The power of the gods comes from the gift of chaos or from the old gods.

However, to be able to maximize the power, after wearing the crown, it is justified. After that, there will be temples and believers, and the power will expand rapidly until it can dominate the entire world.

But since ancient times, wearing a crown can only be bestowed by the gods and kings, first there is canonization, and then there is faith.

But what if there were a lot of recognition before the canonization of the god king.

Hermes knew that no god had traveled this road yet, but he was born wise and well-informed, and he sniffed out something.

"I'll change it," said the poet softly, "and I'll write that ending as I promised."

He knew that if he did not compromise, he might be killed here today. Like the legendary Laocoon, he decided to compromise, but he wanted to sow the fire.

The god named Prometheus is not a liar and a villain, but the benefactor of mankind.

When Aeschylus was a child, his mother took him to watch the flames.

"You see, it always burns very slowly at the beginning, a small cluster." The woman said with a smile, "but you can cover it at this time, and its growth is really fast."

"Once it gets to a certain point," said the woman, "even a torrential rain won't necessarily be able to stop it."

The boy stretched out his hand, feeling the warmth.

But now he made a wish, wishing that after my death, thousands of years later, there will always be people walking on the road I expect, the tyrant will eventually be exposed to the wilderness, and freedom will eventually spread everywhere.

The poet recited his own poems and lashed at the face of the tyrant. He kept sending envoys, but he never dared to stand on the stage by himself.

His eyes fell on the middle-aged man sitting on the high platform, the sunlight shrouded his back, looking sacred and inviolable.

He is tall and burly, but there is no one around him, only himself sitting tall.

The poet knew it was the King of Gods himself, listening to his own lines.

And the Hermes he had seen, sitting in the stadium on the other side, showed a smile, and patted the blond young man next to him. They laughed happily, but they restrained their smiles for a second, and pinched each other. a handful.

He followed their gazes and saw a young girl sitting on the steps. She seemed to be listening seriously, with a faint smile, holding half of a loaf of bread in her slender and fair hand, and wearing a gold medal on her finger. ring.

The poet was slightly taken aback.

In his conception, this god should be a tall and strong god, standing upright, possessing extraordinary courage, mind, and indomitable will, noble and resourceful.

However, if it is really her.

Suddenly there is no sense of disobedience.

The girl seemed to feel his gaze. He originally thought that the girl would smile at him, like a god listening to his praises, smiling noblely and compassionately.

However, she raised her hand, covered her face, and hid behind the black-haired young man next to her.

Like an ordinary little girl in the neighborhood listening to passionate songs.

She is neither violent nor fanatical, the poet thought, but he suddenly understood that a person who is too hot often goes out quickly, and the deepest water often flows without any sound.

Thunder and lightning split the abyss, the hero fell into Tartarus, thunderous applause resounded in the theater, and the poet bowed deeply.

He knew they would remember the psalm, and that his hasty, seemingly happy ending might quickly be forgotten.

There was no expression on the face of the king of gods.

You control what I write.

But you can't control my heart.

Sentences will die, words will die, but enthusiasm will not die, and readers after thousands of years will read only enthusiasm first.

Poets are always the most sacred apostles of Dionysus. We will carry lamps and travel all over our homeland and other places when it is dark, singing love and freedom. Rural peasants can always sing better songs than imperial literati.

This is human beings.

The next chapter quickly begins the show, with the rebels making peace with the sovereign, wishing his reign forever, and then a final chapter of praise and description of human customs.

All in all, the audience is buzzing, this is a superb piece of work, and he deserves the laurels, and the goat.

Aeschylus wins.

He bowed his head and let the people crown him with laurels.

And her laurels were once again lost.

The poet parted a path from the crowd, eager to catch up with the goddess, who was indeed not far ahead, queuing for a jar of honey.

"I still like "The Trojan Women." The girl was talking to her companion, "Of course this is my own feeling."

"This is a breakthrough in the subject matter." She said dissatisfiedly, "What a good start to tell the story of human beings themselves."

The black-haired young man touched her head, "Do you want to buy wine?"

"It's average." The girl yawned, "I want some flower seeds, but you have so much open space, maybe if you tidy it up better, there will be many beautiful goddesses to visit."

"Then I'll take a look over there." The black-haired young man said and walked out.

In the dusk, her purple eyes looked bright and clear, and she turned her head as if she had noticed something.

The poet stood still.

A blush suddenly appeared on the girl's pale face. She smiled and tilted her head, "What can you do with me, Poet Laureate?"

"I also like the poems of that younger generation." The poet said, "He will definitely have a great influence on later generations."

The girl nodded with a smile.

"But this laurel crown is not for me." The poet said softly, taking the laurel crown from his head, "it was given to you by people."

"No, it's for you." The girl smiled and said, "Your skills have indeed been tempered and are very good."

"Then please accept it as a reward for me." The poet held the laurel crown in both hands and placed it in front of the girl.

"I believe that there will be more outstanding younger generations who will write better poems in the future." He said.

"Then do you mind if I give it to them?" the girl asked with a smile.

"Never mind," said the poet, "but they will have their laurels too."

The girl laughed. She picked up the laurel wreath with both hands and looked at it. The fragrance of bay leaves wafted slowly in the evening wind. She suddenly realized something, "My God."

She covered her eyes, "My team was hacked."

"Is there any public morality?" She complained in a low voice.

The poet couldn't help laughing, "With all due respect, you really look like a little girl."

The girl blinked her purple eyes, showing a hint of confusion, "I am indeed a little girl."

"That's not the best team." She expressed deep dissatisfaction, "Who is it?"

The poet laughed, waved his hand to the goddess, and said goodbye, "Then I'll go first, I have to see if my sheep has been taken away."

"Hurry up, what's wrong with this world, but someone should help look after it."

The girl said with concern, she bent her eyes, showed a smile, and waved her hand.

"I wish you a bright future," she said with a smile.

The poet feels that his heart seems to have turned into a feather, flying up and down, full of ease and peace.

He walked back to the venue, and his sheep was still there. He led the sheep and walked through the street. His friend asked him to put away the laurel wreath so quickly, and he said that it was not comfortable to wear.

"It's so tiring. It would be nice if the author didn't have to read it himself." He said dissatisfiedly, "I feel like I'm going to die."

"Go ahead and eat something nice, like roast your lamb," suggested the friend, "and you're not exercising."

"That can't be done," he said, "but I have stock at home."

"Okay, let's have some wine by the way," said the friends, whistling, and they walked together through the spring night, and the streets were covered with flowers, so they couldn't help but write short songs to praise the good night.

The author has something to say: please comment~~