Crouched, into earth Pan played his flute gently,
as if sorrow, overwhelmed him sun red cried.
He was alone, and if playing through the village
would only attract rats, windows close around something died.
All the way to the woods, where seeds of fallen fruit show
where Santa Ana winds gently blows, everything replied.
The Moon, and the dark birds, white in burrow,
Owls house, hungry for their chicks, a yellow site.
She was scared, seeing this, coming from the streams
the most beautiful daughter of the Miller, revered polite.
But followed, the tune too, where flowers bud glowsome
where dew meets end of day as in morning, – “oh does he bite?”
Saddened the tune becomes, and heart ache’s
as if he sensed her watching him, but moan
Why maiden, an beast follows to enchanment
no one knows, sure his tune blows someone now gone.
She decided to go back and prepare potion
to rid her self of Pan, this creature all alone.
–
Lifted, next every day but no sound
so entering woods to find Pan, she goes.
A woman to see him again, so in spells bound
but finds only deer and raveging swine, bows.
So she decided to sing, him back bring
and sure and behold, Pan follows.
–
“Oh she wants me, Maria?”, Pan smirks
So he decides, to evoke thunder and storm.
To se what she looks now wet and unfound
but her wit finds easy shelter, not false born.
As Pan now, invites playing his harp
As if fishing carp, she now in yearn.
–
The gorge and valley in full beuty
Pan’s woman is smitten, didn’t expect
As if desert a flower can bloom
so is song, if calling prospect
the wilderness, cave, in neglect.
–
Pan grabbed her, captured in his web.
She naked not stripped, untangling hip
Master! She cried! Why leave me naked
Got forsake, she didn’t get it. Whimp!
So Pan spoke, I want you woman of village
this my pilgrimage
. I limp!
__
**
And soon flower, delivered
in her dien mouth, not poet.
Eaten, by regrets,
that Pan not faced, yet in chin met.
Aloud, his voice, and to woman choice.
She failed? No she remembered.
With Pan, stayed.
–
A story ends, his lover a woman
and no one follows, the flying swallows.
As Pan plays, on her death bed.
She with him, no tear shed.
She him had, and him her.
All together, only the pear?
Cooked, pealed?
bud@