The Redundancy of Gods
Now the redundancy of gods
has made a vacancy of sky,
for mortals no longer look up,
they need us no more.
The wild they have mapped,
and in iron ships that sink and swim,
called submarines, they survey,
explore the ocean floor.
No more do they light beacons on the hills,
do battle on the plain of Troy.
Here on high Olympus,
Zeus groans upon his throne,
yearns for the days of Hercules and Jason,
knows more woe than joy.
Aphrodite is lovely still,
Hermes is still swift.
Hera says the more lamps that burn,
the more the shadows shift.
On Earth, the Temple of Athene
stands a ruin, an open air museum,
a white shell for weeds, not wisdom,
to flourish in, and the green slime in the cracks
in the pillars are not minded by the tourists
who come to see them.
Pan laments upon his pipes
for the time of the centaur and the faun,
when goat herders called upon his name,
and the water nymphs had hair
silver by the moon, in the sun like corn.
I, Phoebus, bright chronicler of Olympus,
put down my pen.
Though this may seem a final entry
in my eternal journal,
I know I will be prompted
to take it up again.