The Poetry of
Michael G. Khmelnitsky

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phanoclesLuvrBoi:  Believe it, guys. They wasted Orpheus!

And Orpheus, the Thracian Œagrus son,
Loved Calaïs, the son of Boreas,
With all his heart, and often went to sit
In shady groves to sing his heart's desire,
Was restive, yet his sleepless cares did waste
His spirit as he gazed fresh Calaïs.
The Bistonides had sharpened their long swords
And ringed him in, and killed the man because
He of the Thracians first was to propose
Male love, and from the women turned his eyes.

ovid_naso43:  No way! That's gossip. Bunch of bitter chicks…

And now, his sacred songs, his tuneful lyre,
But ill-according with their wild desire,
Their frantic rage incense. "And shall he thus
Defeat us," (thus they cry), "And scorn our love,
And love these woods?"—When one, enflam'd with spite
And rage, and turbulent with jealous light,
Her Thracian tambourine resounding high,
Advanc'd, was first in sanguine fray to die,
In Phoebus' name and, hapless, with a stroke
Of sounding oak, his dulcet harp she broke.

virg.latinpoetprince:  I ain't seen shit. We just brought girls to him.

Soon, they complained that his desires waned,
And that he spends the measure of his day
Recounting constantly his lost, beloved wife,
Reciting poetry to rising winds,
And to the frozen brook bemoaning strife,
Or to the sky-tall mountains telling things.
In those who don't consume, no profit lies.
At first, the angry cries rose at the bard;
After the spear, large stones flew at his eyes
And stained with blood the poet's head and heart.

ovid_naso43:  The woods went bare and rivers won't flow right…

phanoclesLuvrBoi:  Or did they simply snuff a sodomite?

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