The fall of the final Colossus, its chin fringed like a hanging reef, furrows a valley to far Parnassus. Rampart brows crack deep, earthen fingernails go to seed, to sprout, to tree, to ash; though a bit of our hero freed another part goes to the long gash, to the slow-rolled and the bottom-dealt. He thinks to visit near Delphi, thinks again of the frail dais, and the cost: the dying sky. He thinks, "If only he could see me - my father - surrounded by all this death; vivo la dolce vita.”