Pandora Poem by Steve Trimmer

Sweet Pandora, my love
I am thine, the man Epimetheus who loves thee
`Twere not the fault of thee, Lady Pandora
`Twas not thee who released The Spites onto humankind
Be`t The Hellenes men of gynopathy and shackles who did so;
Old age
Labour
Malady
Insanity
Vice
Passion and
Delusive hope............

In their misogyny, they blame my gentle flower
For it was they who propagated these plagues
Folly Hesiod disseminates this lie; He as pseudo-rhymster
Faugh! Passion surely can not be so disdainful?
Hope is never delusive

Sweet Pandora, my love............

For once thou wert Rhea, and I thy paramour Cronus
We were Titaness and Titan of Peace
On bended knee, so uxorious was I, and am still
I wert Pandora`s paranymph at Athens
Even The Sylphs abated The Winds for us
We loved neath the moon of Phoebe and Atlas
So enchanted by their Love

No, Pandora, it `twere not the fault of thee (or my brother Prometheus)
It was not a Box of Spites which thou hast opened
It was a Jar of Winged Souls (and mote passion)
Who fly in grace and beauty betwixt Earth and Ethereal Gardens
On the Golden Spring Air of The Eastern Breeze