Sibyl

This is where she sat,

Writing on oak leaves,

In the dark,

With the aid of Apollo’s light.

And when the wind shrieked,

And angrily blew

Her words away,

There she would remain.

This is where she danced,

Singing to the fates,

Who often listened,

But did not reply.

This is where she asked

Love-struck Apollo

For her choice of gifts:

As many birthdays

As there were

Grains of dust

Before her.

This is where she laughed,

And turned that brightest of gods away,

When he granted the wish

And came

For her virtue 

That day.

Yet not shrewd enough!

For once sent away,

That great god

Refused her pleas

And once gone

This is where she slowly understood,

The cursed nature of her words,

As she slowly shrank into herself,

To be put into a jar,

A foolish ornament for a willow tree.

This is where she hung,

From the twisted branches 

Of the willow tree.

And when the children 

Came to play,

A boy asked her,

“Oh Sybil, What do you want?”

This is where she caught,

Death’s eye.

And as the willow tree

Mournfully bends,

This sigh echoes 

In the wind,

“To die…”

This is where she remains,

As those letters

To the sun

Scatter forever.

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