Ovid - Metamorphoses (Minyads) lyrics

Ovid – Minyads But not Alcithoe, one of Minyas' daughter's; She rejected the god's orgiastic rites, Even denied that Bacchus was Jupiter's son, And her sisters shared her impiety. The priest had ordered a Bacchic festival, With female servants to be released from work, And their mistresses to wear animal skins, Loosen their hair and weave it with flowers And have in hand a vine-wreathed thyrsus. And he prophesied that the wrath of the god Would be severe if he were slighted. Matrons and young wives all obeyed, setting aside Their looms and baskets and unfinished wool To burn incense and summon Bacchus, calling him Bromius, Lyaeus, son of heaven's fire, twice-born Son of two mothers, Nyseus, unshorn Thyoneus, Lenaeus, genial vine planter, Nyctelius, P:tther Eleleus, Iacchus, Euhan, And all the names you have throughout Greece, O Liber. For yours is youth without end, You are the child eternal, most lovely in heaven, Your head most pure when you appear without horns, Conqueror of the East even unto the bounds Where brown India is bathed by the Ganges. You k**ed Pentheus, O Lord, and axe-wielding Lycurgus, Blasphemers both, hurled the Tuscan sailors Into the sea.You drive a chariot drawn By lynxes harnessed in bright-colored reins. Maenads and satyrs follow behind, and that old man, Drunk. with wine, staggers along with a staff, Clinging weakly to a rickety jacka**, Wherever you go you are cheered by the young, And women 's voices blend with the sounds, Of tambourines, of drums and long reed flutes. "O, be with us, most merciful and mild," The Theban women pray as they perform the rites. Minyas' daughters alone remain inside, Unsettling the festival with the untimely work Of the goddess Minerva, spinning wool, Thumbing the thread as it turns, staying close To the loom, and keeping the women on task. One of the sisters, deftly drawing out thread, Says to the others, "While other women Are neglecting their work and running in droves To those so-called rituals, why don't we, Devotees of Pallas, a truer divinity, Lighten the useful work of our hands And make the time go by telling stories? We could all take turns." Her sisters agree And ask her to start. She thought for a while Of which story to tell, for she knew quite a few. Perhaps she should tell the tale about you, Decretis of Babylon, who the Palestinians say Changed into a fish all covered with scales And swam in a pool; or how her daughter spent The last years of her life perched on towers, Clad in white feathers; or how a certain naiad Used incantations and powerful herbs To turn boyish bodies into mute fish And finally became one herself; or how a tree That once bore white fruit now yields fruit darkened With the stain of blood. She liked this last one Because it was not yet well known, and so she began, Telling her yarn while her wool spun into thread. [The Minyads tell a series of mythical stories about love and transformation] The story was over, but the daughters of Minyas Worked on, spurning the god and his festal rites. Suddenly, unseen timbrels a**aulted their ears With raucous sound, along with curved cornel flutes And tinkling bronze. Saffron and myrrh Scented the air, and, straining belief, The warp on the loom turned green; the hanging cloth Changed into ivy, part into grapevines; threads Became tendrils; the weft sprouted grape leaves, And clusters of grapes empurpled the fabric. The day was already at an end, a time That you could not say was either bright or dark, Night's borderland perhaps, but still with some light. Suddenly the house's rafters seem to tremble, The oil lamps flare up, the whole building Blazes with ruddy flames, and ghost animals Fill the rooms with their howls. The sisters Scatter to hide in the smoke-filled house, Scurrying to different rooms to escape The glaring flames, and while they seek cover, A membrane spreads over their slender limbs, Sheathing their arms with papery wings. The darkness Prevents them from knowing how they have changed. They have no feathers, yet they are borne aloft, Sustaining themselves on translucent pinions. They try to speak, but their tiny voices match Their shrunken bodies, and they squeak with anguish. They inhabit houses, not forests, and hating The light of the sun they flit about in the Twilight creatures that are called vesper bats.