His face with countless deep wrinkles; a groove for every
Era. Far from ancient times, but still young, his nimble caper.
The untameable Ancient God, forever young. Always there
his cry for desire, unstoppable lust and never-ending
eagerness.
His yellow eyes – was it yesterday – still can see the neolithic
time. Pan’s birth is shrouded in fog. He cannot be the son
of Penelope and Hermes. Because in the Egyptians pantheon,
the Lord of the Forest, he already jumped around.
The messenger God, the one of the golden winged dreams,
his father? Could be! But, Penelope always virtuous behind
her loom, remove the shroud at night. And again, she lived
in different times. Her moral compass, her loyalty, is beyond
His tempting heart.
Thamus sailed at Paxus, with seaweed in his ears, still confused
by The Sirens call. Perhaps enticed by the sound of the jealous
Poseidon; Amphitrite fled this God before. No, The Goat horned
God is not dead. He lives forever.
He is alive! Pan lures and dances; his Syrinx, his desire
caught in a three-quarter time. The thin sound of Debussy’s
solo piece, softly sad, grief of centuries in just three minutes.
The God is trapped in Arcadia in a perpetual mobile of
flute playing.
Come, oh Pan, the world old and grey, needs you.
Come out of your forest, the world misses your youth.
Come; it is time, seduce us with your spell.
Foto Annemarie
