Dionysos sat with his back against the old oak tree
under which Zeus presented Chthonie
with a veil on which was broidered a map of the World,
a sceper that once had belonged to black-winged Night,
and Golden Apples of the Hesperides, three in number.
How different things were then,
fresh from their victory over the cruel Titan King
and his scaly companions
who sought to storm the walls of high Olympos
and slaughter all they found within.
Everything was fiercer, brighter, younger then
and Dionysos was able to see it clearly from the tree.
But that’s not the information he needed
so he sent his consciousness out through a different branch,
arriving at a different point in time.
There was his father again,
lying defeated at the base of Mount Kasios,
arms and legs splayed out limply,
the sinews having been ripped free with Kronos’ sickle,
and the King God’s blood flooded the hollows of Syria
as far as Cilicia, where the wild goats roam.
Dionysos knew all that followed
and did not need to see it another time;
instead he went back into the tree
and came out on the day
when Zeus and his court visited Samothrace
for the marriage of Kadmos and Harmonia,
and something happened there that should not have.
Dionysos watched intently,
horror dawning in his eyes.
Returning to himself, Dionysos said,
“Well, at least I know which root to cut
– but why did it have to be that one?”
