Oh mead-sweet father of mine,
fear not for I did not drink of those waters which bring forgetful slumber,
and I hear every tear that’s shed for me,
every prayer mother recites,
raising her bird-like hands heavenward
as she beseeches the shining ones in their Olympian dwellings
to grant me a better fate.
You tell them, father, that I have wine as my fortunate reward;
I have walked the way other mystai and bakchoi have walked
and I know who I am and what to say to the doorkeepers.
My name is Starry;
I have fallen into the milk and risen up to take my place
among the fiery chorus in the eternal dance of our god,
the lord Dionysos who loosens!
Do not cry for me, for I finally know joy without limit or division.
This I prepared for, all my short days,
pushing every boundary, breaking every chain,
hunting raw experience,
living life to its fullest and regretting nothing.
I was not an easy child; I could have been a better wife and mother, perhaps,
but I never let this world dull my spirit or weigh me down with grief.
And for that I have you to thank, father, for you raised me to be a Dionysian,
free and mad as any woman who ever carried the thyrsos,
and when your time comes you will be greeted in the flower-fertile meadow of Persephone
by your daughter clothed in white, holding the crown of ivy out for you
and the cup of wine that never empties.
When you wake remember my words, O Glaukios my fellow-initiate,
and let there be an end to grieving,
for here I lie, Oinanthe your daughter,
in a bed of ivy far beyond the shores of the sorrowing river.
