Immortal Dionysus, god of ecstasy,
creator of masked festivals,
you who soften souls,
noisemaker with the “euoi–euán” and the cries.
You grant us joys through celebrations,
you bestow communal delight,
you complete Apollo’s symmetry,
and at symposia you philosophize through wine.
Primeval, double-born, triple-formed, lord Bacchus,
ineffable, wild, hidden, horned,
two-shaped bull!
You never went to the lands of the North
to transfuse them with cheer and joy;
your role was taken over by wicked priesthoods
and twisted psychiatric institutions.
And leaders produce criminals full of malice,
the same also in the Islamic dominion.
You who went even to Troy,
go also to transatlantic Hesperia,
likewise to Greenland, Russia, and Lapland,
to transfuse them with a little humanity.
Teach them Orphic things
and Bacchic mysteries,
with persuasion, with musical songs
and joyful marches—
with zournas, with clarinets and the lyre.
Wine gladdens the heart
and drives away melancholy,
even with whisky, in moderation, and with beer.
Instill in them love for nature,
so people may enjoy oxygen in the forests;
balance, justice, and temperance,
drive wars away in favor of Peace.
The greatest responsibility belongs to each of us:
a barrier against human sacrifice and suffering,
to the new Hitlers give a firm “NO,”
and mock them at the Patras Carnival.
My mind goes there every such season;
it gives joy, cheer, and dizziness.
At the masked dance, when you go again,
another flirts beside you.
Let the maenad try to devour you—
there it doesn’t matter if she is old or yang beautiful or ugly,
free or married
the mask hides the head and gives charm
You are freed from the everyday
and from the struggle for livelihood,
and you throw yourself into the embrace of love,
tasting the woman’s heavenly charms.
May Dionysus deem me worthy
to go again,
for as an old Patras boy,
the blood pulls me back.
Konstantinos Konstantinidis
Author, Member of the Society of Greek Writers
http://www.amphiktyon.blogspot.com