by Aida Bode

I sent my daughter
to look for my youth
but she came back
with her head low,
and her hands
full with dejection.

The crows had eaten
all the crumbs
I had left behind

and the wind had covered
all my footsteps.

So I sent the leaves,
all the fallen ones
golden with Zeus’ lightning
and brown with
Dionysus’ withered vines

Childhood was there
born of Euridice
alive and well
in Hades’ dwelling.

1 thought on “Myth

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