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THE MYSTIC LYRE OF ORPHEUS







Like a bowl of roses, the mystical does not last

Oh how it must vanish so as to make you

Understand that it is beyond our being there.



The world changes so quickly like the clouds;

That which seems to be finished falls to the

Primordial ground to rise up again like his lyre



The music falls to the ground and then below to

Hell, where it rescues Persephone and all those

From the saddest mien of perpetual thralldom.



The dead are like all winters behind us and under

The blanketed winter is such a perennial winter

That only overwintering will suffice to overcome it.



And as the rose blooms after winter is long passed

To be placed once again in the bowl, it is Orpheus

In his coming and overcoming with his mystical lyre



He is always here but you cannot follow lest you

Do the same overreaching as he does when his

Fingers leap from the strings. Nothing holds him back



Yes, and even in death, suffering is not fully understood

Neither is love. Our hearts are not tuned into the divine

Ratios of Pythagoras and Orpheus as he plays his lyre.