“Selene, did you hear?”
“Selene, do you know?”
“Selene, you should not.”
“Selene, what do you mean?”
“Selene, would you forgive me?”
“Selene, I promise.”
“Selene…”
“Sel...”
Cursed to never forget, he remembered it all,
Beneath wide branches, beneath shadows that fall.
He gazed at her shell, unmoving, so frail,
Pale face, cold hand—a sorrowful tale.
His heart, it shattered; he reached for her hand.
“Selene, I am here; I’ll help you to stand.”
But lifeless she lay, her body undone,
Crumbled to dust beneath the dim sun.
He prayed to the gods—silence replied,
Turned to the devil—his pleas were denied.
Alone with his grief, cold as the night,
He called to the heavens, no hope in sight.
A broken man, he found my gaze,
Begging, pleading through hollow haze.
“Oh Sun, remember, this tale you’ve seen,
The prayers to gods, to devils, to me.
Remember your cries I chose to ignore,
Remember you asked, you begged, I implored.”
The man shook in despair, torn and undone,
And the ugly hand tore the tale of the Sun and Selene

XXXII. TO SELENE (20 lines)

(ll. 1-13) And next, sweet voiced Muses, daughters of Zeus, well-
skilled in song, tell of the long-winged (35) Moon.  From her
immortal head a radiance is shown from heaven and embraces earth;
and great is the beauty that ariseth from her shining light.  The
air, unlit before, glows with the light of her golden crown, and
her rays beam clear, whensoever bright Selene having bathed her
lovely body in the waters of Ocean, and donned her far-gleaming,
shining team, drives on her long-maned horses at full speed, at
eventime in the mid-month: then her great orbit is full and then
her beams shine brightest as she increases.  So she is a sure
token and a sign to mortal men.

(ll. 14-16) Once the Son of Cronos was joined with her in love;
and she conceived and bare a daughter Pandia, exceeding lovely
amongst the deathless gods.

(ll. 17-20) Hail, white-armed goddess, bright Selene, mild,
bright-tressed queen!  And now I will leave you and sing the
glories of men half-divine, whose deeds minstrels, the servants
of the Muses, celebrate with lovely lips.