There is an ancient tale the poets sing,
Of wandering seas and one long-suffering king.
When Troy had fallen in its ash and flame,
The crafty Odysseus began his way back home again.
Ten weary years he sailed through grief and foam,
With only hope to guide his heart toward home.
His faithful wife still waited day and night,
While greedy suitors claimed his halls by right.
Penelope endured their noise and pride,
Yet kept her love and honor locked inside.
Young Telemachus, uncertain and alone,
Desired to learn the fate his father’d known.
He sailed to kings whose memories could tell
If brave Odysseus lived or if he fell.
Old Nestor spoke of valor long ago,
While Menelaus said the truth he knew:
“Your father lives, though trapped by fate’s command,
Far from his throne and far from Ithaca’s land.”
Meanwhile the hero, captive to a queen,
On Calypso’s island lived unseen.
The nymph would keep him there with charm and grace,
Yet home’s dear memory none could ever replace.
Then mighty Zeus commanded from the sky
That Hermes tell the nymph to let him fly.
Released at last, he built a fragile frame,
A raft of hope upon the restless main.
But Poseidon’s rage rose dark against the tide,
For Polyphemus, his blinded son, had cried.
Storms shook the waves and shattered sail and oar,
Yet still the hero struggled toward the shore.
The Phaeacians found him worn with pain and scars,
And heard his tales of monsters, gods, and wars.
With kindness rare they carried him once more
Across the sea to Ithaca’s beloved shore.
Yet not as king did he return again,
But as a beggar clothed in rags and pain.
He watched the suitors feasting in his hall,
Their pride and waste an insult over all.
With loyal son and servants brave and few,
The patient hero planned what he must do.
The bow was strung, the arrows swift and sure,
And justice struck the wicked and impure.
The palace echoed with the suitors’ fall,
And rightful order once returned to all.
At last Penelope beheld his face,
Yet tested well the truth of his embrace.
For only he could know the marriage bed
Whose rooted trunk the living chamber spread.
Thus love prevailed when doubt had passed away,
And night of wandering turned to dawn of day.
So ends the tale the ancient singers tell:
How wit and patience conquered fate as well.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 2:52 PM UTC
There is an ancient tale the poets sing,
Of wandering seas and one long-suffering king.
When Troy had fallen in its ash and flame,
The crafty Odysseus began his way back home again.
Ten weary years he sailed through grief and foam,
With only hope to guide his heart toward home.
His faithful wife still waited day and night,
While greedy suitors claimed his halls by right.
Penelope endured their noise and pride,
Yet kept her love and honor locked inside.
Young Telemachus, uncertain and alone,
Desired to learn the fate his father’d known.
He sailed to kings whose memories could tell
If brave Odysseus lived or if he fell.
Old Nestor spoke of valor long ago,
While Menelaus said the truth he knew:
“Your father lives, though trapped by fate’s command,
Far from his throne and far from Ithaca’s land.”
Meanwhile the hero, captive to a queen,
On Calypso’s island lived unseen.
The nymph would keep him there with charm and grace,
Yet home’s dear memory none could ever replace.
Then mighty Zeus commanded from the sky
That Hermes tell the nymph to let him fly.
Released at last, he built a fragile frame,
A raft of hope upon the restless main.
But Poseidon’s rage rose dark against the tide,
For Polyphemus, his blinded son, had cried.
Storms shook the waves and shattered sail and oar,
Yet still the hero struggled toward the shore.
The Phaeacians found him worn with pain and scars,
And heard his tales of monsters, gods, and wars.
With kindness rare they carried him once more
Across the sea to Ithaca’s beloved shore.
Yet not as king did he return again,
But as a beggar clothed in rags and pain.
He watched the suitors feasting in his hall,
Their pride and waste an insult over all.
With loyal son and servants brave and few,
The patient hero planned what he must do.
The bow was strung, the arrows swift and sure,
And justice struck the wicked and impure.
The palace echoed with the suitors’ fall,
And rightful order once returned to all.
At last Penelope beheld his face,
Yet tested well the truth of his embrace.
For only he could know the marriage bed
Whose rooted trunk the living chamber spread.
Thus love prevailed when doubt had passed away,
And night of wandering turned to dawn of day.
So ends the tale the ancient singers tell:
How wit and patience conquered fate as well.
