Apollo walked the corridors of light
carrying his bow. The arrows at his back
were tipped for war. His eyes, brighter
than the blaze of Troy, burnished
the ground beneath his feet.
His voice hummed low an
old paeanic hymn. The words
were grim:
twice molten by the
muses' gaze
are those who fail
Apollo's praise.
thrice plagued - undone -
may mortals fall
if they forget Apollo's thrall.
The snake foretells, the lyre sings,
and arrows strike on sunlit wings.
Apollo comes
Apollo comes
Cupid hears his song with scorn. Draws from his quiver two shafts - one gold, one lead.
Apollo...Daphne...the song is dead....
Could it be that he who gives oracles
to all in the world
is not wise enough
to look
into
his
own fortunes?
Grief ecliptic. Victim? Victor?
The girl is tree is leaf is sacred.
Oh my laurel love, daughter of the river-god...o my Daphne, Daphne!
Reason is fled, heresies abound - listen to old Aristarchus!
He scoffs the very chariot of Helios.
Or that old scholar-scoundrel, Ptolemy.
measuring distance from the earth to the sun in myriads of stadia...
lyre and the snakes!
snakes and lyre...
godless men will end in fire!
image from here
No comments:
Post a Comment