Whether he loved, who can say?

Or, whether he merely drifted along his way,

Along the endless river of chance and change,

He suddenly woke, passioned and strange,

Passioned with longings that have no names,

But that burn him with hidden flames.

Who can say?

Life is a strange and wayward thing,

Even here, if the forests among the Endless Springs,

Where he heard the bells of the distant Temple ring,

The Month of Marriage, a month of spring.

Through the trees the huntresses came,

In search of a sacrifice for the wedding games,

And under a moon more fiercely blue,

The Satyr, in his drunkeness, said: 'Ah, they will do,

'Among these trees I shall take my brides,

'I shall steal their souls; I shall own their lives!'

He came forth to them with verse and sayings,

Jumping and bounding, as if in playing,

'Oh my dearest beauties, it is lonely here,

'My arms are empty; my heart weary with fear,

'Only your radiant eyes, shining beneath the starlight,

'Can drive away my dread and lift the veil of night.'

Upon his lute, he played tunes of his vivid life,

Where death was cruel and danger rife -

Of deep dark forests, and poisoned trees,

Of plains and passions that scorch and freeze,

Of how love can dispel the fears of fridged nights,

And of lust growing frantic with strange delights.

While the Satyr was playing, the huntresses danced,

Till at last, within his spell, they lay still, entranced.

'No use to struggle, when I have left you sleeping,

'You have become my slave, and my love is your pain,

'With your defeat and humiliation I have much to gain.

'As I feast as a beast upon your grief and desolation,

'You shall ease my loneliness, and become my consolation.

'Ask no questions; make no prayer,

As I kiss your lips and caress your hair,

'Passion excites us as we greet the flow -

'To have - to hold - and - in time - let go!'

As the Satyr fondled his new delight,

The untouched huntress began her fight,

From the depths of sleep she was awoken,

The beast's spell, his curse on her, broken.

She arose in attack, and from her loud cry, the other awoke,

They beat him, without mercy, breaking him with every stroke.

'I feel the strength of your fervent arms,

I suffer great pain; I suffer great harm.

If you let me go, never again shall you see me,

I shall go from here, and forever let you be.'

Their attack ebbed, and the Satyr took flight,

But the first girl cried: 'no, we shall finish this fight,

'In search a sacrifice, that is why we came,

'We have our beast; let his blood open the games!'

On this night, the forest was bathed in blood,

From anguished cries, and the flow of a crimson flood.

They committed their slaying under the ancient trees,

Whose branches whined in the light night breeze.

Whether he loved, who can say?

Or whether he merely drifted along his way,

The burning of his soul from hidden flames,

To a passionate longing without a name,

In the moonlight of lust and delight,

In the world cast in forever night,

Within us all, enemy, friend, and kin

Have we nothing but the souls of beasts and men?

Who can say?