That was one lady who came to a bad end
by way of the innocuous: soft reeds
played by a Zephyr, hints of distance and melody,
isolated chords of sunlight in their evening finale.
The gods undoubtedly weep for her memory
amongst billy-goats on some Arcadian hilltop.
But now, via a whimsy of Medical Science,
her name’s transformed, become disease, degeneration,
wherein motion and feeling,
subtracted, disintegrated, set a stage,
along a dismal road of quiet anticipation–
for the coup de gras.
Had she known, had she known, one must wonder,
if she actually would have panicked,
have run, as she did, for the river?
What he, her pursuer, interpreted
as love, and she, as abusive sexuality,
might otherwise have resulted
in a cordial, if not fruitful
relationship. But water nymphs
apparently lack this foresight; on the other hand,
a hot, hormonal stimulation, may make
fools of even the most high and mighty.