Who is the strongest, asks the little volcano, you or my cloud of ashes? Who is the cleverest, my stealthy, almost invisible dust whose slow and crazy course no one dares to predict from one hour to the next, or your battalions of volcanologists and other meteorologists who saw nothing, predicted nothing, and who, even today, despite their science and technology, their ultra-sophisticated systems of prevention and intervention, and their gigantic observatories, are reduced to scanning the sky like Roman oracles watching the erratic flight of birds?

Is the die cast, in other words, to such an extent as the certainties of technoscience would have us believe, between the marvelous tools capable of fashioning, transforming and, in principle, domesticating and pacifying the real and those other Forges where the Ancients believed Hephaistos's laborers -- those monstrous Cyclops who were also, at the same time and paradoxically, the guardians of the Being -- worked at the foot of the volcanoes?

Prosopopeia of the volcano.

The wrath of the little volcano, inflamed by the immense and indecent arrogance of men.

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Heather Horn