His legs, once so strong,
Sink into the muddy earth beneath him.
Extending a quavery hand to the flower,
Its violet hue reminds the god of a face
Burning in his mind.

Apollo recalls the purplish undertones
Of the young man’s under eyes,
Dark circles conceived from nights
They feigned slumber in each other's arms.

In place of sleep, the god lay awake
In admiration of the mortal before him.
So full of vitality and verve
Even in this leaden state.

He would listen to the irregular flutter
Of the man’s breathing,
So different from his tepid godly breath
Now so hollow in comparison.

In Apollo’s hiatus of mortality,
He embraced the lifestyle of his companion.
Throughout his eons of immortal existence,
He had never felt more alive.

It was not until Hyacinthus
That Apollo understood the beauty of mankind;
No mortal had encaptured humanity’s virtue so well.

The memory of this man’s life
Rippled in Apollo’s mind as he knelt
In the place he had clung to Hyacinthus’ lifeless form.

The purest of them all
So swiftly destroyed by divine jealousy.
All that was left of his life, planted before the god.

A flower,
A ghost
To linger on this mortal plane,
To honor the falling of the greatest love
Of the god’s infinite life.
Even its beauty and grace could not compare.