He heard it off the island of Naxos
Avered the old sailor, his skin brown as baked earth.
It was a voice, strong as winds presaging a storm,
Yet the sea was calm, with moonlight shimmering upon it.
"Mikos," the voice thundered. "When you reach land,
Go proclaim that the Great God Pan is dead."
"Christians have pulled down our temples,"
Gumbled Mikos, "and have replaced them
With their stark lonely image of a mast and pain.
No more are our rivers and forests
Home to fair nymphs and dancing dryads;
No longer can a wanton maiden
Blame her full womb on a God's ravishment."
Mikos had been fooled though.
The Chritians had transformed Pan
Into a demon with horns, their scapegoat
For their creed of suffering and remorse.
Pan sought his refuge behind the veil of dreams.
Now that puckish deity sounds his pipes
To awaken our subconscious desires.
Our dreams, like frequency waves, roam freely
Beyond the Puritan blackness of night,
Beyond the confines of logic and reason,
Beyond responsibility and time.
The Goat-God's smile is inviting
As he picks up his flute, and with a few notes
Beckons us to enter his nocturnal realm.
There erotic forbidden visions dance
Frenzied revelries of somnambulance.
Satyrs cavort and centaurs prance
To a musical exhortation to romance.
Dryads whisper tales of divine dalliance
To nymphs who long for their own chance
To catch a God's lascivious glance,
While intoxicated lustful Maenads dance
With abandon and wild exuberance.
The delicate gossamer webs of dreams
That I spin in sleep vanish when I wake
As though swept from the ceiling of my mind
With a broom dipped in the river Lethe.
This morning though, I awoke with a longing.
A strange melody of unknown origin
Was raising passionate havoc with my mind,
Drifting in my thoughts, just beyond full recollection,
Were wonderful visions of the Plains of Acardy.
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