It was as if he had wings, and the wind
behind him. Even uphill the rock
seemed to move of its own accord.
Every road felt like a shortcut.
Sisyphus, of course, was worried;
he'd come to depend on his burden,
wasn't sure who he was without it.
His hands free, he peeled an orange.
He stopped to pet a dog.
Yet he kept going forward, afraid
of the consequences of standing still.
He no longer felt inclined to smile.
It was then that Sisyphus realized
the gods must be gone, that his wings
were nothing more than a perception
of their absence.
He dared to raise his fist to the sky.
Nothing, gloriously, happened.
Then a different terror overtook him.
