Orpheus, by Auguste Rodin
But you, divine poet, to the end a singer:
falling prey to the pack of Maenads,
you wove their shrieking into wider harmonies,
and brought from that destruction a song to build with.
No one to call when they raged and wrestled,
but the jagged stones they hurled
turned gentle when reaching you,
as if able to hear you.
Hounded by hatred, you were torn to pieces
while your music still rang amidst rocks and lions,
trees and birds. There you are singing still.
O dear lost god, you endless path!
Only because you were broken and scattered
have we become the ears of nature, and her voice.
Sonnets to Orpheus I, 26
Both the ears and the voice, no wonder he worshipped this god. I love thinking of our writing work (life work) being both the listening and the speaking. Being "bees of the invisible" gathering nectar from what nurtures us all around, and returning it to the world transformed, transmuted through our essence.
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