Once a giant, she remembers those days. How relatively easy it would be. Standing at that raised threshold, her hands on the top of the door jamb, looking down below at the favela. This teeming civilization. Then out on the horizon. The all-knowing smiling yellow sun.
The rumours of the world would come to her, softly, in whispers on the gentle breeze.
And they would be poems.
And they would be stories.
Or they would be visions of how things should be.
She would admire and search out those like herself.
The ones who with keen ears to the wind.
The ones who would trade in words.
The ones with the audacity to think any of this matters.
Even if they be perfectly imperfect gods.
And the question now hangs in the air: How do you fell a giant, so pitily.
It is all in the eyes.
Yes, it is the eyes that must be destroyed first. Always. And thus you have sadly secured the last beat of the giant’s heart.