Calliope, the Muse, bore a son of Apollo
Orpheus, Orpheus
his father presented him a lyre
his mother, song
Lyrical and infinitely eloquent, the tones of the world
The notes of gods and men
Loves, passions, agonies
All that make the natural world turn
And men writhe at night
Songs alike the threshing of the waves upon the shore
Or the evening cacophony of the ponds
A song ever different, a song without end
As men of the world ne'er end their folly
But,
for Orpheus,
Calliope shook her head at men
smoothed the boy's Thracian locks
and patiently sat with him for days on end
to learn the foundations of song
its entablature, its pediments, the frieze
She, the greatest Muse,
imparted the invisible threads
And tones of all the world
their sounds, varied yet affirmed
as colours in marble
Songs as precious as ocean agate
as it were at the foot of the Colossus of Rhodes
The boy played his lute upon the shore
They say that mighty Apollo gave it to him
Mark how it never loses itself
I have never seen it tuned
Why would it be? Gentle Calliope, ever mother, protected him
And assured he grew to be greater then he ever thought himself
As goodly mothers do
Orpheus,
Wound song to bring the rains, and made the trees displace themselves
in dance
He found his true love.
Stepped upon the dark underworld to retrieve her...
Did not Calliope, in essence, do the same?
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