They call me god, yet gods do weep.
What worth is light when love can sleep
in crimson pools upon the ground—
his voice now gone, that lark-like sound.

I cradled him. My trembling hand
still shakes with what I can't withstand:
the wind's deceit, the discus' flight,
a twist of fate, too swift, too slight.

O Hyacinthus, bloom of Spring,
you were no mortal, but a wing
of morning joy—so fleet, so free—
a melody composed for me.

Your laugh would ripple through the pines,
a music sweeter than my lines.
I, who play the golden lyre,
was humbled by your gentler fire.

Now earth drinks deep your youthful flame.
I carved in petals your fair name—
so every bud that bears your hue
may whisper, soft, "He loved me too."

O Zephyrus, envious breeze,
you stole the breath that once brought ease.
But even gods cannot undo
the threads that Fates have woven through.

Yet I, immortal, shall remain
to wear your memory like pain—
a garland not of joy but grief,
each flower a frozen, fragrant leaf.

Hyacinth, I make you bloom—
from blood and silence, out of doom.
And though I rise to light the skies,
I see you always in sunrise.