Were I to forge a ring for you it would be thine,
But instead I craft a poem and it is mine.
Shall I sing, Muses, of Ganymede beloved of Zeus,
Or how gods and titans came to their truce?
Or else of Hippolytus, brave and fair,
Who fell to Aphrodite for his arrogant lack of care?
Perchance of Adonis, but one more name springs to mind –
I will sing to you of him, Muses, perhaps pleasure you will find.
I sing, Muses – Apollo and Hyacinth’s tale I’ll tell;
The tragedy of he beloved of gods, how he sweetly fell.
Tell me Muses, who is it I see, his hair tousled in the wind,
Fair locks upon his brow, his perfectly formed chin,
Climbing the mountain, singing to his flocks,
Scrambling to the summit over the broken white rocks?
You whisper, Muses, so tell me again what you say,
Ah, ’tis Hyacintos, smiling and gay,
As the bleating of goats fades away,
And the breeze blows in his hair.
Far away, yet somehow there,
Zephyr cannot help but stare,
Present in the blowing gusts of air.
The god of the West Wind, the sweetest of all,
Sends warm billows from the sun-soaked central sea.
They curl around Hyacintos who laughs in their caresses,
Not knowing they are as roses to their master who’s here,
In the warm billows sent by he, Zephyr.
But they are not alone beneath the baking sun,
For there’s the chariot of Apollo up above.
The god of that inferno, he also loves,
And bathes the playful Hyacintos.
He fills his mind with music and his face with greater beauty,
While soaring through the heavens in the day.
These are our players, two gods and their young love,
The two bewitched by their sister Aphrodite’s dove,
The one blissfully not knowing what fate spins
As two watch him from above.