The Last Song of Orpheus

1

Now strike the golden lyre. Bring forth a ringing chord. Another, louder. Louder yet: a chord to raise the dead. Yes, even that: death itself cannot withstand your music. So strike the lyre; raise the dead; make the rivers weep, Orpheus, and the trees shed their leaves in sorrow.

And strike another chord, an even louder one. Then a softer one, and softer still.

Sing, Orpheus!

Sing of your life, and of the understanding of sacred things that has been given to you, and of the tasks the gods have laid upon you, and of your sufferings in pursuit of those tasks, and of your death. And of the eternal renewal that follows death.

Sing!