He only met his father a few times.
The Muse thought that he ought to learn to ride
and use a sword, but did not let him decide
that he could be a king and not make rhymes.

He met this bearded stranger. Up to then
he had assumed Apollo was his sire
who’d often spend the night, sit by the fire
and gave him presents. Now this king of men

bumbled around him, gave him a white horse
and a small sword. Orpheus learned to fight
but had no taste for it. He rode the white
once and fell off. His mother then of course

flew in a temper, took him home. The king
his father sometimes came to hear him sing.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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