The Myth of Hyacinth and Apollo

Alas, you could not love the sun with life.
This I knew, as your figure hit the ground,
As my face paled, as my arms reached for you.
This I knew, in the air of our meeting,
When I believed I could love you truly,
In the way you mortals know how to do.
This I knew, as I taught you the lyre
And even though I could it play better,
I could never be good enough for you.
This I knew, the morning my throw cut open clouds,
As I tossed the discus into the stars.
You ran to catch it-- it was not for you.
This I knew, as my force struck your fair skin,
As I saw red emerge, crown your forehead,
As I saw it drip down, saw it spell out:
He could not survive while loving you too.
This I knew, the morning my love killed you.

I fell to the grass, prayed to be mortal;
Privileged to grieve the way the dying do.
Gods pray, however useless it may be.

Gods pray when they can do nothing but view.
I stared up to the heavens in defeat,
Halted the sun, let it burn though the sky.
Oh!--If I could bargain with the weavers,
But even gods surrender to The Fates.
And I ignored your fragile, beating heart,
More fool than god, but worshipped often are.
Your death was imminent, could not be stopped,
But it was still sinful; my blood-stained palms,
My blood-stained palms, that would make father proud,
My blood-stained palms, so fitting for a god.

Worship is all you should have given me,
Your love would be better for another.
Your soft conscience--how was it ever mine?
I cannot return your life or your love,
But I can make you immortal.
Your blood, your name, can reside in the meadow,
Among the tall grass, the caroling bees.
Hyacinthus-- I speak your name each morning,
As my chariot forges the daybreak,
Remembering your kind, gentle manner,
Evident as you played me the lyre,

Evident in your words, your touch, your love.
Your face may fade with every setting sun,
And I may not hear your voice much longer,
But I promise to greet you each sunrise,
Hyacinthus-- my morning bloom.