I sing the praises of the Kore of Knossos,
the bare-breasted queen who never let the bull go hungry,
whose dancing-ground winds round like the web of a spider
dangling from a tree,
her lips sweet with honey of frenzied bees,
slender hands familiar with the soft flesh of serpents
and the taut hide of a drum pounded in ecstasy
while the flames leap
and thunder rumbles in the distance.
Ariadne who went mad on the island,
with only herself to keep her company.
Ariadne whom Dionysos loves above all others,
weird reflection of his wounded heart.
where words grow like leaves
Reblogged this on The Divine Twins and commented:
I particularly like this one.