Ad Deos Annorum Morietur

Magical Omaha

Pan has grown old,
flaccid and impotent,
the fawns and nymphs
no longer gather
to his noted flute.

Ecstasy departed.
The earth mundane.

His music lingers
in odd trills,
difficult to hear
in remote vales,
in distant hollows.

Another old god,
nearly vanished
from the world.

A pagan echo
lingering in
cellular memory,
where men might still
be wild, mad, and free.