They repaired the trireme’s tattered rigging
and readied themselves to set sail again
while lying idle in Lemnian sand
was what they preferred. With fair winds they fetched
Antissa quickly. The trees were blooming
or frisking the sunlight with their freshest green,
but red leaves continued tumbling as though
autumn just yielded the year’s last splendor.
When Hupakoë picked up a leaf,
he found an inscription of future events.
From the cliff hanging behind the town,
a cave was leaking the proleptic leaves
as priests of Dionysus nursed the poet.
Yellow catkins covered his scalp
and he couldn’t close his clammy eyes
and he only paused his prophesy
to drink the wine dyeing the oak stump
that served as his bed, his bier, and his throne.
His words transformed into falling leaves,
which the priests caught lest the cave clog
with an unbound archive. Orpheus didn’t
halt his predictions till he heard himself praised
like a god and saw his gifts opened:
soon as Hupakoë said Minos,
the hearer beheld his whole future