To Hermes Psychopompos

Hermes, you who speak, you who negotiate, you who shatter all boundaries, you who understand, Friend of Humanity, you who have a great heart, do you know what festers in mine? Do you know that pain, that cold mud that, after plunging yourself so many times into the Styx, coats your veins? Do you ever rest on your journey, Traveller? Do you ever long to set down the burden of souls that you carry on your shoulders? What do you feel as you work? Do you feel? Do you shake it off, Careless One, do you harden your hands by pulling up those who collapsed at the sight of Charon, do you harden your heart, your soul, do you turn towards the sun, towards the Moirai, do you tell yourself that there is a reason to everything, that your father Zeus who knows all rules the world with justice? Do you weep? You who mock solemnity and make light of honour, are there times when the road becomes too steep, when the river becomes too deep, when our eyes become too glassy? Do you wonder, sometimes, what those eyes have seen? Do you attempt to picture, Immortal, what ultimate mystery we take part in? What emotion accompanies us? When you lie down on Olympus where laughter is inextinguishable, as you wait for sleep, do your thoughts drift towards our suffering? Do you dream of legs that are too heavy, of whimpers, of hiccups mingled with blood? Do you press a fist to your chest to stifle its aching? Do you recite our names, one by one, spending years of your eternity to remember all those with whom you have travelled? Or do you cleanse yourself of us after each crossing? Do you forget? Is that how you are still able to descend after so many centuries, so many deaths, is it from indifference that you draw your strength? Do you laugh, Endless One, at the sobs of we who see so little and yet suffer so much? Or will you, on our final meeting, let the same tears fall from your cheeks?


About Artemisia

Lighting stars in the sky and skipping stones across the Styx.
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