Khelsea and Epauros | by: Athenyme

CHORUS

O Endless Wind, and water that no mortal king can tame,

How swift is the descent of the immortals into the snares of desire!

No man may escape the net of Aphrodite,

Nor can the deathless gods withstand her bitter-sweet sting.

Behold the tragedy of the mortal who measures the earth with stone,

And the daughter of Chaos who watches from the silent waves.

STROPHE I

EPAUROS (holding his leaden plumb line against the rising wall)

Straight must the line fall, true must the stone rest,

Lest the labor of these hands fail the heavy gaze of Rome.

Let the iron-clad soldiers pass me by in their marching;

They draw no blades against Epauros, nor bind his wrists in steel,

For they know the worth of a faithful hand that builds their fortresses,

And the wit that turns their wrath into hollow laughter.

Yet, what is this shadow that troubles the surface of the lake?

A breeze that smells of the deep ocean, though no sea is near—

A vision of pale light amidst the reeds, mocking my earthly toil.

ANTISTROPHE I

CHORUS

It is Khelsea, the unpredictable breath of the northern gale,

Child of Heleigiri, who holds the keys to the world's decay.

She has left the halls of Entropy to walk the damp shores of men.

Hidden in the mists, her eyes devour the beautiful laborer;

She, who commands the freezing rain, now burns with a sudden fire.

Day after day, her divine feet touch the grass of the mortal realm,

Bound by a charm she cannot break, watching the mortal man from afar.

STROPHE II

EPAUROS (kneeling before a small, improvised altar of stones)

Hear me, laughter-loving Aphrodite, born of the sea's white foam!

Give to this poor worker the courage of a king.

For my eyes have pierced the veil; I have seen the Water Goddess.

To her I leave these humble offerings—the sweetest herbs, the unblemished fruits.

If my prayers possess any weight, let her steps draw near to my hearth.

CHORUS

The goddess heard, for love is a master that bows even the proudest knee.

Under the cover of a moonless night, the waters parted,

And the daughter of the Mist accepted the mortal’s gifts.

For seven suns they wove a bond deeper than the roots of mountains,

Spiking the bitter cup of mortality with the sweet wine of heaven.

ANTISTROPHE II

KHELSEA (crying out to the open sea)

O, treachery of the earth! O, fickle hearts of men!

I went to the seashore, where the tide meets the sand,

Hoping to greet my beloved, but found him not alone.

There stood Giatheoi, his ancient flame, her arms wound tight about his neck!

Woe to me, who trusted the dust of the ground!

I shall plunge into the blackest depths, where the light of the sun is forgotten,

And seek the cold embrace of Amphitrite, queen of the roaring abyss.

STROPHE III

AMPHITRITE (from the deep, comforting Khelsea)

Weep no more, child of Heleigiri. The shores of men are filled with deceit.

Let the tides wash away his offerings; let the salt destroy his gifts.

Every shell he lays upon the sand shall be dragged into the devouring current.

No mortal shall mock the daughters of the sea and remain unpunished.

CHORUS

Great is the sorrow of Epauros, who cries to the unyielding waves!

His flowers are torn by the surf, his prayers drowned by the gale.

But look—the maiden ascends to the throne of Entropy,

Seeking the counsel of her mother, who sees through the darkness of all hearts.

ANTISTROPHE III

HELEIGIRI (with the heavy, ancient voice of Karma and Mist)

Hear me, my daughter, whose tears trouble the great waters.

You weep for a betrayal that was never born in truth.

Giatheoi, desperate and shadowed by envy, spun a web of false words;

She sought to trap the brave worker in a snare of illusions,

To rob him of your favor and bind him to an empty past.

Turn your grief into the fury of the storm! Fight for the mortal who is rightfully yours.

EPODE

CHORUS

Like a tempest descending upon a fragile fleet,

Khelsea returned to the shore, shattering the lies of the deceiver.

She scattered the false shadows of Giatheoi and reclaimed her chosen lord.

Now, the bitter winter of their separation has turned to everlasting spring.

See how Epauros walks the shore at every purple twilight,

No longer a servant to Rome, but a priest of true devotion.

To the edge of the tide, he brings the treasures of the earth and sea—

Flowers of the field, polished clams, and the pale gleam of pearls.

And the waters receive them gently, a token of a love that outlives the stone.