by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, ix, 453
Priests of the temple, forbear
on behalf of a suppliant.
If he had tongue to speak,
this animal,
brought at great cost by one
who cannot afford to lose him,
might bow its head and utter:
Zeus on your Olympian throne,
this lowly ox, unspotted but old,
lows as the priest approaches,
knife upraised, and cries out
“Spare me!”
For who serves all with better heart
than one who pulls the plow?
Son of Cronus,
remember when you bore Europa
over the broad sea on your back —
and in what form? — the untiring bull.
Remember, and spare your fellow creature!
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