Satyr sense in moan —
Horned form falling to its knees to wonder, "why?"
Why no flute; Why no lyre;
Why an origin of sin?
Spinning back to an unseen glade,
long lost to unrecorded time,
a set of nymphs had merry played
and thought his pipes and pipe divine.
Satyr, now in quiet cry,
knows not who to ask,
why his nature slowly dies,
the Earth grows dysenchanted,
and Gaia won't abide his playful banter
any longer. She dispossessed him of his harem;
Was she his wife to wipe away his concubines?
Does she see, now, that he can't remember why?
Why did the force of Fey subside?
The druids did not die;
does it matter that they hide?
Suppose the Satyr sang them out —
Would all the serfs of Gaia
even recognize each other?
Their Mother has been burned and scarred;
In places, her ardour is hard to remember.
Suppose the Satyr sang in desperation —
knowing nothing else to do —
and drew both loving things and hateful
and could not tell between the two;
Such a sad horned fellow
might rather hear a lie,
than know how he was cuckolded,
by Gaia, once upon a time.
The Truth, quietly, accompanies
when he listens to the lyre;
He hears them in the distance,
growing louder, as he cries.
Trying all the while,
To understand why.
Ryan David Undeen, the shaved satyr, has lost his Gaia and wakes at midnight under the spell of heart-break. Doubtless, he will overcome the demons; the stark darkness is the domain of hungry spirits, but with harmonica to fill the gaping space of absent pipes, this piece of Pan will find a way to pacify. That said, chant an Ohm in his direction and send some Chi for his son.