The thirsty ones slumber beneath the mounds,
until the scent of flowers and young wine lures them up
through the jars and into the streets,
shades of the dearly departed returned to crown their descendants
as the children get their first taste of wine from sippy cups
specially crafted in the Kerameikos district.
They say that nearby is the heroon of the leonine son of Orpheus
whose pious granddaughters gave up their tender lives
to save the city from a devastating epidemic.
And a little further on, in the direction of the old temple,
the one in the swamp where they worship the God in the form of a masked pillar
there is a rock, with an indent in the shape of butt cheeks.
They say that the exiled king Orestes,
out of his mind and goaded on by winged Lyssa,
crowned with frightful snakes, sat here seeking a moment’s reprieve,
as he shambled towards the hill of Ares and his final judgment.
Weighted down by guilt, he left that imprint as a witness to his tragic plight.
Others say that ass belonged to Theseus, from when he and his buddy Perithous
went down to hell to gang-rape its Queen.
All the while the poor bastard was stuck – flesh fused to stone – the echo
of Persephone’s laughter rang through his ears.
But if you’ve come for some Dionysiac sightseeing, be sure to travel the extra way
so you can visit the ruins of the old man’s hut and the well with the great white snake in it.
Go into the woods behind, and you’ll see primitive clay masks and dolls
(broken and weathered almost to nothing) still hanging from the trees.
And if you listen closely you’ll hear, faintly, the plaintive wails of a lost and lonely masterless bitch.
This land is filled with the dead; every inch of it a memorial to something or other.
