Cyclops sat by his stone stove on his stone chair,
ate black bracken broth mixed with red kidney stew
with a wood spoon from a wood bowl,
in his cave half way up a hill.
When one describes such an ogre what can one do?
“Humans, goats, sheep, hawks, even vipers have two,
so why have I but one eye?
Why so singular am I
beneath the blue but unresponsive sky?”
he groaned, his belly bloated and fed.
He lived by himself, so no one heard what he said.
His friend, the centaur, he visited,
far down in the vale,
hoping his dim wisdom
had grown less pale.
“This riddle I cannot solve.
Why with only one eye did I evolve?”
he asked him, in a dolorous tone.
“Why ask me who is half human, half horse?
How can I riddle right?” the centaur replied,
who to himself was always right, of course.
Cyclops stumped off, felt alone, with none on his side.
The faun was no help, being half human, half goat.
“It is as if we are all in a myth some human wrote,”
instead, off the subject, he said.
Nor was the Minotaur any more sure,
being half human, half bull.
The question Cyclops asked him
drained all thought from his brain
till only sleep was left in his skull.
Cyclops retired to his cave,
thinking every image in his eye
was sacred to save.