by Brett Rutherford
adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 535
Mock me if you will with cries,
whistles, sheep sounds, wolf calls.
I am not to be dislodged, will not
turn my back to the busy avenue.
No more shall I, the cloven-footed
god, content myself with flocks
of stupid sheep, tame dogs,
and the unruly rompings of the goats.
I, Pan, am now a city-dweller.
Trust me, mountains are beautiful,
so long as you do not climb them.
Enough of up-and-down — the up
in particular. But it is grief
that brings me here, a grief
that requires distraction. Silent,
my pipe, and broken, my song
have been since Daphnis died.
Daphnis, a cousin-love,
a son of Hermes, handsome
as the god of dreams himself,
who kindled new fire
in this old heart
is gone, and with him my
merry smile. No grapes I pick,
no fruit I pluck from summer’s
rain-heavy branches. The dew
has not run rivulets down
from brow to beard — my tears
discolor my cheeks of bronze.
Young ones: seek in vain
to meet me in the forest.
Hunters: no more shall my pipe
suggest to you the brake
in which the fleet deer slumber.
I am here to stay, a sad Pan,
bereaved of one Daphnis.
If another comes, with just
such eyes, and shoulders proud —
well, then, we shall see.
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