Sing to me no more, oh Muses,
Unless it is a sweet dirge,
Mourning the wondrous Hyacintos –
Alas, I must fight the urge!
But still the tale draws on,
And ‘neath my pen,
He beloved of gods must end,
In the wind and sun of the past.
His locks flowed in the breeze as he laughed in the sun,
His lover stood there, the shining one,
And the day was warm as they met that day,
For the sport of discus, such a joyful game.
They embraced, they kissed,
They knew it not, a final time,
Then Hyacintos did test the wind and let his discus fly.
Zephyr sought his young love’s eyes,
But then he saw Apollo, and wished for him to die.
He turned the disc upon him in a fearful rage,
A blast of wind from the distant west hit the toy with which they played.
He sought to smite the sun god, the thief of love and peace,
And then the wind subsided, and both gods were forced to weep.
His beauty shattered, his costume stained,
Hyacintos had been slain.
Then both gods stood and stared, amazed,
The suddenness of this tragic change,
This bitter death, untimely loss,
The rest of time reduced to dross,
For before them, shattered by the twisted toss,
At times, I know not what to say.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic