It is said a god began the story, but that is an exaggeration. On the cool slopes of Arcadia, she dwelled; a nymph, agile and sly, she fooled them all, they called her goddess.

It was rumored she said No, she slipped through his hands with a soft sigh, she changed, not conformed.

And Mercury might have said more, expounded further on Pan’s great loss, but it was not about him. For it was her eyes that grew dark and her choice to chase the night.

She turned to reeds which he bound with wax. Pan never could let go.

Inspired from Ovid’s Metamporphoses

Image Credit here

If you like this, read my other poem “Metamorphoses” here