Νικησεις, Διονυσε.
One day, one day, when the sun lies gold on the white snows of Olympus and the wind plays resin-scented on the blue Ægean shore, the conches of our Lord shall blow, blow, blasting the high sky clean of our clamor; and His Vines shall begin to sprout. Swifter than His pard-drawn car they will cover our cities, climbing the grey towers of our commercial sickness, toppling them to tonitrual ruin, choking roads and motorways to scented stillness, entombing drivers in green whence they resurrect leaf-crowned, faces stained purple with bursting grapes. Our poisoned rivers, our filth-choked streams, will dim with red and rise to cleanse the violated land with wine, overturning the steel forests of our pylons, submerging supermarkets and cinemas, parliaments and laboratories, drowning politicians and lawyers, journalists and businessmen, as they stab the buttons of irresponding lifts. The smoke of a billion short-circuits will shroud the death-throes of London and Paris, Vienna and Rome, and rise to reveal green leaf and white marble, while wine-foamed Thames and Seine, wine-dark Danube and Tiber, sweep the detritus of modernity to the abyssic embrace of the eternal Sea.