olympia


in olympia’s sacred grove
loud echoes the turf, fleet feet falling.

androchus.

trained by royal indulgence
in the palaces of the mighty,
how many mornings
did you fly the sunlit paths
between the sighing cypresses,
sentinels of eternity?
what gatherings of gods
what immortal audience
looked down upon you
from the vaunting clouds
to admire your grace,
your scything, flying form?
androchus,
the eagle born above olympus
upon breeze-blessed pinions,
never flew more beautifully
more swiftly than you
past the stones imperial,
the marble heroed ranks.
androchus,
your grace blesses
the very ground
your feet pass above,
tender plants appear
at the print, the spring
of your swift, supple steps;
such grace is divine
and to offer it back
to the immortal ones
is highest honour.
androchus,
our fleet flying son,
bring blessing and renown
upon fair mytilene
this new mooned olympiad.

in olympia’s sacred grove
loud echoes the turf, fleet feet falling.

centaurus.

my limbs are not my own,
before me they lie,
cast off like clothes
awaiting repossession.
i centaurus,
mated with magnesian mares
in the oaks of elis,
i fly over fields of thessaly,
and arid steppes of the east,
liminal, i rejoice in my duality,
man and beast,
muscle and carbon fibred,
cheetah limbed,
coiled, pent, sprung,
in the motion of my victory,
mere flesh and blood
cannot compare.

in olympia’s sacred grove
loud echoes the turf, fleet feet falling.

aegea.

mother moon bore you
in the vastness of night,
amazone,
huntress, you chase
the starry menagerie
as it wandering westward rolls
down to its hidden lair
beyond blue euboia
around the stockstill pole.
your long limbs gleam aegia,
oiled with martial quickness
and the lost spirit
of achilles at the danube;
antianeirai, androkotones,
men fear you most of all,
for to fall at womans hands
is shame for all eternity,
a twice dying.
aegea,
swift footed warrior,
beauty adamantine,
the sacred grove trembles
at your approaching tread.

in olympia’s sacred grove
loud echoes the turf, fleet feet falling.

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