Spent from centuries

Homesickness, René Magritte (1940)

Spent from centuries of flight, he finally lets down his singed wings, takes a glimpse of what the world has become. With the light of Leo guarding his side, he was almost immune to the ravages of fire. One cannot help but turn black. Deep parts of him reduced to cinders with every waking loss: How love dies in our well-meaning hands. Of where to return after the ruin. That day, the sunrise burnt his eyes, just as the fires engulfed every city in the great fall.

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