Poetry: Pan’s Yin

Pan’s Yin

Each melancholy note
From his Syrinxian flute
Hangs in the valley like
Unrelenting dew

The grievous melody
Joins a deplorable choir
Laden with angst and bleats
Of love’s ebbing fire

On the damp banks, he lay
Clutching the stolen token of
His loveless lover’s mane
And rejected love

His fallen ears burdened
With the sting of Apollo’s sin
The price of victory
Yet, he plays the piece again

‘O read, my song, let it run
From my lips, to the sun
Into the clouds, and make them cry
Tears, that carry life, into the earth
Like seeds to die, to resurrect rustling reeds
To perfect a Syrinx tune, rippling the water like a lamenting loon,
And I will play it again and again, under, a forgiving moon.’

It’s one of longing, a ceaseless ode to pain
A forever mournful, haunting cold refrain

4 thoughts on “Poetry: Pan’s Yin

    • Thanks Charles. Are you back to writing again? I know you said you were taking sometime off to regroup. Thanks again for stopping by.

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