The Drums Poem by dimitrios galanis

He loved the drums since childhood.
He carried them in mind with him
used to put them to give the signal
once for aggressive advance,
once for tactical retreat, subterfuge.
He had connected them with violent conflicts,
hand-on severe attack,
suffocating siege,
sinking causing naval battle,
defeat's and victory's clamor, yell.
He used even to amble in their pacing rate,
mostly as marshal or admiral champion,
sometimes as chased protagonist,
when he had got rid of shield, spear, bow, paddle,
not to be burden in his flight, regress.
He preferred the role of a triumpher
but alternately amid the clatter of their clang
he played the role of the defeated sufferer,
to imagine, to live, to get experience in humiliating them.
In joyful ordinary music feasts
he thought they betrayed their primary part,
that of the war's art under the beat of drums.
Young teenager when in need
to handle the arrows of his heart,
he wanted them to accompany its shot's whistle.
As assailing drummer, used to see in front of him
victims of the charm of their clangs.

Adult already, upsets him their clack.
He can not control their pulse,
werewolves do not obey him anymore.
Rattling in anarchic stomp disturb his own step,
echo in his ears like the wild voice of Pan
panicing humans and cattle
on the rough Arcadian gorgeous paths.
How can he carry them recusant,
order them to give others, to opposites,
the motto of the stampede,
that he figured his power in hand!
He resents heavily not to be him,
whom he believed to be,
the conductor of the orchestra
who defines rhythm and pulse,
as when imaginative young.
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