From a Grecian Urn
If Keats's Grecian Urn invoked the right to reply....
You speak to folk of gods from ancient times,As though they lived, and loved, and fought, and died.We knew that they were stories, often toldTo help explain this world that we behold.This world so strange and willful needs a taleTo help explain what lies beyond the veil. So Zeus, Poseidon, Hera, Hermes, andAll the rest of that mythical bandUp on Mount Olympus held their swayParties turning nighttime into day. The priests retold their stories, nodded, smiledThey seemed just like our children, running wild. We wouldn’t let ours get away with that.But Gods? Oh, well, can’t have them getting fat.So party on, and fight, and have your fun,We understand your work is never doneBut spare a thought just now and then for us,Bend down and bless - not like we make a fuss. We understood them, all those gods of oldOr thought we did, down here among the mouldOf earthly life, which often seemed so grim,Zeus, well, good luck hearing from him! The others, well, they multiplied and bred,It got so hard to keep them in your head. You see them painted on me, and you thinkThe likes of these, how far could people sinkIn ignorance, depravity and lust?To understand out pantheon you mustRealize no better story came to hand:Olympus ruled o’er our beautiful land. Religion? Superstition? Who can say? It was our culture, back then in the day.Stories told, depicted in our art,Painted on urns like me; I played my part.Nice and fancy, decorated withZeus, Hera, and others from our myth. But life went on, as seemingly it must.And I was buried deep within the dustOf passing ages, buried with the tide,Dug up and cleaned; now displayed with pride.From on this plinth, I look at you and thinkThat young man’s smart, he’ll commit me to ink.