PRAEFATIO

      Tell me whether the dead return.
I ask, O Muse, not only for the one
whose story we shall tell, but for my sake
as well: the poet dare not answer this
herself. Its resolution is too fraught
with gloom for her, with dark and winding paths
that twist in sharp returns – to ever more
sinister realms, where flitting specters hide
and whisper menaces half-heard. Such is
the labyrinth of the mind. So spin, O Fates,
upon your golden looms, and aid us both:
the puzzled Muse, and I, as yet still blind.

Our story, then, concerns a hero – but
one sung, thus far, in quiet tones, compared
to most. The bards and lyrists have remained
reluctant to relate his quest, or hers
(for heroes, as we know, repeat themselves
across the galaxy, in different forms
each time). The reason? Only that, perhaps,  
his struggle still perplexes even him.
We see most heroes overcome their foes
and obstacles, then reach a journey’s end,
by way of virtues – pietas, arete –  
which grace their noble souls. Not so this one.
Another question, then, O Muse, but one
whose answer is more likely to come clear:

      The unnamed hero stands upon
a mountaintop, and flinging arms aloft,
he raises up his query to the sky:
O gods, I am all pietas – why then
am I not home?