In the West lies the Sun’s grave, with poplars crying golden sap;
For as Persephone descends to Hades, so does Helios court the Piercer.
Blessed be the heavenly Scorpion, scourge of his father Ouranos,
Whom he pierced with rusty daggers, allowing dear brother Kronos the blow so final.
In the shadows of the setting lover, Iapetus ponders, weighting so carefully the values of each life;
He is the grandfather of Man, whom his son the fire-stealer sire from clay.
Grandfather he is also to beasts, from Epimetheus of aerial life and mind,
And to the lovely Hesperides, from Atlas of aerial burden and sentence.
Irony settles in his grandchildren’s thoughts, with Asia so far away,
But he himself bemuses that thought, as death against easternly sunrise,
The light of the Dawn birthing the nightly golden trophy, her brother.
As the fiery Titan descends to the dark pits, the hands of mortality grasp,
Rubbing the flanks of Helios before the shadowy embrace.