"Sacred Wood Cherished by Arts and Muses," Pierre de Chavannes, 1889, WikiArt photo.
“Sacred Wood Cherished by Arts and Muses,” Pierre de Chavannes, 1889, WikiArt photo.

Part 2: Blessed as Time-Accursed

God inspired, Iola’s dream-visions ascended
Lofty heights, columned temples, reflecting
Pools, amongst archaic deities, Iola recalled
Her writing as gods listened, assessing maiden
of Thracian meadows. As if ambrosia fed, Iola
Recalled her dreams. “They appear amongst
Passing clouds,” she offered. “Then upon my
Blanket, I sleep at edge of sunlit fields, sheep
Grazing, Ekho watching over me.”

Light of benevolence, Rhea, ancestral deity,
Listened to Iola, as she turned massive tablet
Pages, citing decades of events: past, present
And future. In reverence, she recalled each
Moment, exploits of human race, poetry and
Painting, wars, and disease. “Your poetry,
Iola, fills our hearts and pages, citing lengthy
Stanzas, historic legends only remembered by
Us,” Rhea advised, Iola’s writing unraveled.

Chorus:
O, Iola! Clouds are your looking glass, mind
Time-drifting on vaporous heights, blanket-
Sleeping in sun, peaks overlooking flocks,
Ages pass beneath you, past and present like
Rams and ewes, verses rising to hilltops.
Grown is shepherdess, lifted to poetic heights,
Life ever changed. What destiny is foretold
For metamorphoséd maid who glimpsed
Passages of sacred papyri?

“Within these moments we have spoken,”
Rhea added, “all you know and love has
Time-perished. Warring tribes have burnt
Farms, slaughtered sheep and cattle, vast
Legions occupying grazing lands.” Thus,
Marooned on distant shores, “How?” and
“Why?” were all Iola could utter. Ancient
Deities and muses saved Iola from warring
Plight, their oracle she would become.

"Night," Edward Burne-Jones, 1870, Wiki-Art photo.
“Night,” Edward Burne-Jones, 1870, Wiki-Art photo.

As ivy-crowned divine seer, Iola, attended
Those beset by life’s infirmities, for she
Was fettered to protected lands when gods
Served as healing guides for farming and
Fishing families. On nights beneath fiery
Stars, she wandered flowered plains. In
Sorrow, no poetic verses did she sing, no
Shepherd dog at her side, for Iola’s life
Was equally blessed as time-accursed.

For time being, this will be my last poem. After 670 poems,
I’m taking a break and entering a more reclusive life.
Thank-you so much for following and reading. Your
comments are always appreciated.  Fran

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