He is there in the hint of the wild forest, Though in penumbra, his wonder rests. His whispered notes- a dulcet cascade- ‘thrall, While his delicate fingers nimbly such rich abandon -lithely- caress; Though his intense sacred breath -cool and firm- Is always tempered and in full control. How his fragile melody opens muscles to slowly spread the nymphs beguiling limbs; For in his calling surges from the rich depths, In an old tongue now lost to mortal man where this hubris ridden blinded bleating flock Whom are spiritually absent: razored dreams. In the soft glade where the wild rustlings glow, where the bells bellow and the loose lions rip-a-roar; In this -peaceful- never-lost sacred space The Nymphs -in sweet abandon- slowly sigh. They awake with the golden apple of the sun And the charms of Pan fragile flute unfurling. Between the leaves of the dew weighted trees, Whose high honey bounty, slow reveals a truth, They, with soft steps, follow him from alcoves Where the old black-veined -white stone- pools do dwell Their bare calls: Innocent whispering sighs Stirring wood henges: opening faraway eyes. Here they tuck; writhing his romance, Their lustrous eyes, a half-hidden appeal; Their faces full of mirth’s innocent indolence. How the rich the scent of the old wood echoes, with the delicate murmur of the evermore; to this: his wild secret, sacred, sweet delight.