Thespis’ Chariot

Is April the cruellest month?
One evening of a sad spring
I have seen my sister again,
Oedipus’ audacious daughter,
when she was no longer alive,
what you may well not believe.
She was and was not, indeed,
or she was not really herself
but one character on a stage.
And this was carried around
by an old poet on his chariot,
throughout our land of Greece
(sure, you know what I mean;
most people call it theatre now).

She was and was not at once,
only an actor under his mask
just reciting her own words.
Yet when I saw her going to
die again, because revolted
against the tyrant of Thebes,
then all my tears streamed
from my eyes down cheeks.
And I felt a regret for what
I had not done at her side,
all that I was unable to do
during this empty lifetime,
since I alone have survived.

Urged by sorrow, I protested
with Thespis: “How dare you
forge such a new life to them,
who had already their trouble
in this world?” And the author
replied, scanning deep my soul:
“Dear Ismene, do not blame me.
My god is Dionysus; my goddess,
Mnemosyne, mistress of memory
and mother to the holy Muses.
Truly, may you wish that your
sister shall be forgotten, after us?
Anything she did would be vain,
but my art will replay it forever;
every despot will worry for that.”

Yes, I got so impressed by him
with those a few words, that
I began to follow his chariot
since then, wherever he goes
to stage a play on our lives.
Be it a tragedy or a comedy,
I do not care so much about,
as what matters is going on
to weep or smile in the show.
Not seldom at night Antigone’s
gentle shade comes back to sit
by my side for a while, until I
fall asleep rocked by the roll,
and dream of our blind father
raised to the stars by a god.