In one branch among the multitude of myth,
Paris chooses long life in obscurity;
a shepherd among his flocks in the mountain meadows,
until, white-haired, he fells asleep
amid flowers in late spring, all
his days lived with the turning seasons.
Troy still commands the sea
from its high hill, the aged Astyanax
rules from the palace of Priam and Hector.
In Argos, ancient Iphigeneia still grieves
on the graves of her beloved parents.
Helen dead, always a loyal wife of Menelaus,
their ashes mixed in the tomb. Yet
Phoebus Apollo has still raised his bow,
sending his swift dart to Achilles' heel
outside the walls of some other city,
in some other tale sung by blind bards
as ivy wreathes the lion gates
of fallen cyclopean walls,
for across the myriad branes
one arrow always flies straight.
03.02.2021
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