Athena - An Epic Dream II

By David Gosselin

Featured in our New Lyre - Winter 2024.

Read part I here.

Canto II. 

A sparkling ball lit up the brilliant halls 
As feast on feast unfolded high above 
That dim-lit worry laden world of men. 
Upon that starlit Olympian mount, 
Eros played his rapturous lays for all 
The deathless denizens of Olympus. 
Before a sea of scepters, staffs and crowns, 
His eager fingers plucked the dainty strings 
Of an illustrious gold kithara; 
He sang his songs with an unbridled glee. 

Eros’ Song 

Wine is red and blood is red— 
For this we drink! 
While the mortal wracks his head, 
And his heart fills up with dread. 

Since the sun is gaily red, 
Imbibe and drink! 
Soon the moon will rear her head, 
And your days will all be fled. 

Heed these words you mortal hearts, 
Then quickly drink! 
None can vanquish my high arts— 
For this we drink, lest joy departs! 

Among the pageantry and pomp sublime, 
As minstrel’s music filled the jovial air, 
Queen Hera watched the crowd with eagle eyes, 
Her bodice shining like a thousand suns. 
Zeus bathed his indelible tongue in fervent 
Wines of glistening gold and vermeil hues, 
While Aphrodite and Apollo whirled 
Across the halls like blazing meteors 
Gliding along the surf of cosmic seas. 
And yet the stars grew faint from all the ecstasy, 
For all the muses had been stripped of scroll  
And song; each languished misty-eyed and wan: 
There was Clio—history’s muse—who stood 
Holding her ancient scrolls which had once read 
As man’s record of tragedy and hope. 
Tarnished by tears and hardly legible, 
The sheets hung ragged from her ailing grip. 
Beside her lay solemn Melpomene, 
Who though she wore her mask of tragedy, 
Could no longer conceal the furtive trail 
Of tears that trickled down her ivory cheeks. 
The laughing muse, or so she had been called, 
Refused to share the slightest grin; and there 
Was Calliope with her epic brow 
Sunk deep into obsequious despair. 
And all the other muses gathered round 
The teariest of all—Mnemosyne— 
Who as the matriarch of muses felt 
Their sickness twice the more, grieved twice as much 
To see their power fall into the hands  
Of dalliant gods who had no care for man,  
And all the dreams he kept from Death and Time. 
And so the forlorn muses wept, enchained 
About the clouds—silent and deathly pale. 

But nowhere was the state of things more clear 
Than on the Earth where sad Lorenzo and 
His muse solemnly lay. She looked into 
The dark-encircled voids of once-bright eyes, 
Choosing to make one final heart-felt plea— 
The kind that’s often carried best by song. 

Bella’s Song 

The sky’s warm summer air chastened the hours, 
The budding moon, flush-red, came swimming near, 
As this fair Earth—our celestial bower— 
Swam by those starry states of saffron cheer. 

Bright stars once dwelled within your eyes, 
But by some new-born clouds were dimmed. 
Can you not see those self-same stars arise, 
Which like in our skies, in your eyes once brimmed? 

She gazed into the grey and naked skies 
Where twinkling starscapes once lit up men’s eyes: