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

The black-haired young man bought a small house on the mountain, and then started to raise sheep and grapes. Although he had heard the girl's explanation, it was always difficult to do this kind of thing at the beginning.

Fortunately, someone really couldn't stand it anymore and decided to teach him.

Everything is gradually on the right track.

He later got used to life in the mountains, went to the market every week to exchange things, repaired sheepfolds, made cheese, made wine, and occasionally tried glass blowing.

Sometimes when the sun was setting, he would move a chair and sit outside, watching the sun sinking little by little, and then he thought that he should try to paint this scene, so he took out the brilliant feather of the phoenix from the box.

A line is drawn on the paper.

Yet as he gazed at the line, tinkering with it, he found himself drawing the image of the man involuntarily.

Her purple complex eyes, her smiling lips.

He stared at the drawing papers, then put them away in a box.

Then the box was full.

He decided to go and buy another case.

Sometimes other gods would visit him, and he would buy them wine, and sometimes he would kill a sheep.

They said that they didn't know what kind of person he was before, but now they feel that he is still very good.

Moros remembered the girl who said to him before leaving him for the first time, "You can try to make friends, they will all like you."

"You're a good person."

"I've always felt that way."

He did start to have friends.

Sometimes Apollo would come to see a doctor for the sheep, and suggested that he change the sheepfold to another place. The original place was too humid, which was not good for the health of the sheep.

Sometimes Athena would come over and chat with him about what was going on in the world, and sometimes Hermes would come over, and when he was gone Moros would find himself missing the silver spoon.

So I could only chase him for a few hours overnight.

They all have their own lives, and they seem to have completely forgotten about the goddess. After all, if they want to move forward, it is not a good thing to always remember the name of the dead.

She was originally a goddess with no temples and no believers, and human beings have long forgotten her name. She has been rarely mentioned for thousands of years.

She may have died outright.

The body was taken away, the name was wiped away, and everything disappeared with the wind like smoke, as if she had never been born.

She is like a shadow, there will be no trace after being swallowed by darkness.

However, this is her choice, whether she does not wear the crown, whether she bears eternal exile, or gives up her life, it is the path she chooses, and she has never regretted it for a moment until the last second of her life.

Maybe there will be regrets.

After all, she was poor all her life and never entered the prosperity.

Moros bought packets of seeds from the market and decided to try growing some flowers in front of his house.

In this way, in spring, flowers will bloom and butterflies will come.

As the flower farmer said, he soaked the seeds in water and waited quietly for them to germinate.

Tiny emerald greens emerged from the black shell, and he fiddled with them with a thin wooden stick to check the germination of each seed.

However, his hand suddenly stopped in mid-air, and he raised his head and looked at the sky, the high blue and white clouds.

What did he hear.

is the name.

Someone mentioned the name of the goddess.

The god whose name is Prometheus.

The young student sat in his study. He opened a book and decided to finish his homework. Translating a Greek book was a breeze for him. He dipped his pen in water and wrote the title.

"Prometheus"

"Translator: George Gordon Byron."

He was an aristocrat, but his father spent all his mother's property and died tragically. He was raised in a family and gained titles and money.

He was so well educated that he might find himself a seat in the House of Commons, and put on a pretentious dress, and be a merry sensual beast ever since.

Of course he likes to have fun, music and wine, which are nice things.

But he didn't know why he wasn't happy.

He will always think of the bullying he received when he was young, the sorrow of poverty, the pretentious mercy of the nobles but he will not give a copper coin to the poor and humble.

How should one's life be spent?

He often thinks about this question.

The youth opened the book and began to read this ancient poem from the poet laureate thousands of years ago.

A story created about a certain god.

She was born noble, but born rebellious and rebellious. She is a lunatic and the most dangerous thought prisoner in the world.

She committed many crimes, she killed her father, killed the king, betrayed her own race, and finally received the most severe punishment, was nailed to the Caucasus Mountain, and let the eagle eat her liver.

However, she remained unrepentant, so she was cast into Tartarus forever amidst the howling of thunder and lightning.

This is obviously a story of a sinner, but why is my heart beating violently? This is obviously a guy who deserves his sins without repentance, but why am I yearning for it.

How should my life be spent.

The young man translated the poem line by line, and suddenly he had the answer deep in his heart.

I am willing to fight to the death for ordinary people.

I am willing to pass on what I have learned all my life to others as much as possible without reservation.

I would like to turn into lightning and tear open the dim night sky, even if it dissipates in the wind.

I would like to imitate the comet piercing the sky.

He has always been known as a brilliant and talented student who dipped his pen and what if he wrote articles that exposed the hypocrisy of those in power, perhaps poetry for those who were oppressed?

They will hate me and revil me.

"Your mercy, what is the reward is a silent and cruel punishment." (1)

He couldn't help writing a poem, for the god who had never worn a crown, he didn't like to praise any god by nature, but at this moment he felt that his thoughts could not be controlled.

"You're going through a struggle between suffering and will—

If I can't kill you, I will torture you endlessly;

And the cruel and merciless God,

The unspeakable tyranny of "robbery",

"Hate" overwhelms all nature"

He stopped the pen and stood up. He knew what this choice meant, which meant exile and humiliation, and meant a lifetime of suffering and pain. He picked up his coat, but he gained courage.

The tyrant is doomed to be defeated.

People are created equal, so why are some people born to be superior to others? He remembered the atrocities he had witnessed. He once traveled to the East and saw the ancient and beautiful land under the iron hoof of greed. incinerate.

They fly their own flags, but he's just sick of throwing up.

Freedom was never born on such a sinful soil, Byron thought, there are two roads in this world, I just chose the more inaccessible one when I was young.

"Your silence is his sentence, and he regrets it in vain;

He couldn't hide the horror in his heart: the lightning was trembling in his hands! "

He pondered over the words and sentences in his mind, and silently packed his luggage. He didn't have much to bring. As for the exquisite clothes or other delicate gadgets, he just left them here.

He only needs to bring his pen, paper and gun, and he has decided to fight.

If there is still inequality in the world that needs to be endured, I will be the last person who still endures this inequality. If there are still people in the world who are not free, I will be the last person who is not free.

Life is so fleeting, and only by fighting to the death can I be worthy of the flames that my predecessors saved to me with their lives.

Only then can I be worthy of my god-given talents.

Maybe they'll say I'm guilty.

"Your 'crimes' are holy and noble,

With nothing but compassion,

Alleviate human misfortune by teaching, and strengthen human strength by wisdom. "

I will answer like this.

I have no guilt, more people know.

You know.

He embarked on a ship, away from his native land and friends, from the life he could have enjoyed, and landed in a war-torn country, full of misery and pain as he knew it.

He decided to devote himself to it, fight to the death, and win that chance with his own hands.

Of course he was insulted, ridiculed, and besieged by countless people, and he will return with more intense enthusiasm and bravery.

"Look at human beings, not just read about them," he said to himself, look at the sufferings of human beings, and look at the courage they inspire in them.

He continued to write the unfinished poem.

"You are a symbol, a proof, of the power and destiny of man;

Like you, man also has the endowment of the gods;

People also have some foresight,

Foretelling his own dismal future,

His misfortune and his struggles, his isolation and adversity. "

The vast majority of people who choose this path are not because of blind stupidity, on the contrary, they know exactly what they are going to face, they fully understand the difficulties ahead, just like you, we know everything, but we are still willing to move forward Walk.

If you, as the father of humanity, have ever asked us this question.

Knowing that the future is unfortunate and dangerous, how will we choose.

Then I can give the answer.

He thought that although he was very young, the long-term fatigue and hard life made him feel that his life was being burned. Maybe a sudden disease or a bullet would take away my poor life.

But he chose to write his poems with blood-like ink.

"The heart will rise up against the disaster, evenly matched;

tenacious will, deep thought,

Although in times of hardship

and rich rewards to be seen;

As long as you dare to fight, you will be invincible, and death will become a triumphant song of victory. "

I am sincerely afraid of death, but I believe that death will not be the end of all things. On the contrary, new life will be born from the decay of my bones and grow to a higher place.

And when I die, the world will crown me.

After the death came as scheduled, the people he had helped declared Byron's death as a state funeral, and the country mourned for three days.

His friends wrote countless eulogies for him.

They picked a suitable adjective for him, but the heavy dictionary failed them, and finally they suddenly remembered the name.

Using this name to describe it must be the most appropriate compliment.

"Prometheus."

The lingering death stopped for a moment, and the flower of Neverland seemed to tremble, showing signs of blooming, and stretched out a bone hand to play with it carefully.

It lowered its eyes, staring at the empty shell of the girl in the sea of ​​flowers, her frosty white hair was scattered, with a faint haggard breath, and it gently played with it.

It seemed to have glimpsed something, and finally it chose to whisper in her ear.

"Someone called your name."

The author has something to say: (1) From Byron's poem "Prometheus"