O Oread! Do not inhabit my vegetation
Your sackcloth or fur does not spur
any libidinous pangs in me! I do not have
any delusions, even if the crone stares
straight at me in her journeys. She is not my
spring or summer; I have sacrificed all of these
summers, lying in wait! I will not have Artemis
wrap her knees around my hips! O Oread!
Do not race on my mountains; I do not think
you can leap as free as a mountain-goat there!
I swear I cannot hack your music; when Great God Pan, himself,
issues panegyrics to me of my valour. My bravery will
not submit to Artemis’ allure! Even if I do not
empathise with Arachne! My mountains are gold-encrusted
odes to the ancient pyramids of Mars, that make my fabric,
not lost in the slipstream of aeons! My valleys are thick with
mist; ready to confound Artemis’ army of nymph-hunters.
She is not welcome to dressage in my forests, looking for prey!
To me she is just an old crone; being a predator! The crab
be with her! Oread! You have no privileges to pick out/ on
either my frutescence, flora or fauna! My Dad is not the face
of the Moon, Jupiter is an incandescent hero! My love is not Artemis,
My true love rules the lengths and breadths of Neptune, with my Mother!
Be gone Artemis, with your Oreads! I have no illusions of orgiastic fantasizing!
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